Road to Redemption
by Kasmi Kassim
Summary: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Prologue**_

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The afternoon sun rested peacefully above the valley of Imladris, enveloping the blue skies with the warmth of its rays. Green grass caressed his robes, tapping against his feet, as the lord of the valley watched the lone rider approach. A smile spread faintly across his serene face.

"Well met, Legolas."

The horse slowed to a halt, and the young elf astride leaped off. He bowed.

"Lord Elrond."

Elrond held out his arms, into which the younger elf moved willingly. Gentle arms squeezed the limber body, and Legolas leaned in closer, radiating weary relief.

"My heart sings to see thee," whispered Elrond, lightly stroking the child's back. His hand halted when he felt an imperceptible tremor run along the youth's spine, but when he felt for it again, uncertain, it was gone.

Legolas pulled back, gazing up with a smile. "Thank you for sending Elladan and Elrohir to Mirkwood."

With an answering smile, Elrond wrapped his arm around the youth's shoulder and began to head back to the Last Homely House. "They went willingly, young one. But let us speak no more of this until dinner. Rest; you have traveled a long way."

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The public bath was empty, as he knew it would be during dusk. Shedding his clothing, Legolas crouched at the edge of the marble floor, staring down at the waters. Golden glints were breaking over the aquamarine surface.

_You are beautiful..._

Slowly he stood, and swept his gaze across his body. No more scars marred his body; only burns, painful and incomprehensible burns that caressed his body with heated venom. He shut his eyes.

_You are beautiful..._

Snapping his eyes open, Legolas shook his head, attempting to calm his racing heart.

Gentle sunlight streamed in through the glass wall, the blurred prisms of the glass refracting the rays. A tint of red was appearing on the western sky, preparing to brush into the setting sun. He was alone in the spacious marble chamber, the silence embraced by the soft lapping of the waters. He breathed deeply. He was alone. Safe.

Sliding into the water, he rubbed his eyes wearily, and sank down until he was neck deep. He was tired.

This was a short moment of respite, and he knew it. Soon he would join the lord for dinner, and would be asked questions he dared not answer. And he would have questions of his own, questions that burned into his soul with restless fatigue. And he would soon resume his search, to piece the puzzle together; he would stay away from home, away from Lorien, Imladris – all who knew him well.

The memory of his father, prone and pale on the bed, returned with a vengeance. He shook his head, willing the memory to fade. He was not ready. He could not face his father again yet – not until he had found answers. And only after his father was fully recovered. Slowly he brought up his hands, and stared at them.

The hands of a healer.

The hands of a killer.

_You cannot be both_, he whispered with dull despair. _You must decide_.

The eyes of the orc returned, red and wide with terror. The menace that emanated from the creature was not that of an urge to kill, but the urge to survive. An instinctive distrust, a learned fear.

Clenching his hands, he looked up toward the setting sun. The rays were burning bronze.

_What have I done?_

Biting down a sob that begged to be released with reasons unknown, he stared hard into sunlight beyond the distorted glass.

_Do you regret, Legolas? _He asked shook his head. He did not know. All he knew was that his father had paid for his actions; his father was hurt. That was the only truth he could see; all else was a blur, ungraspable like the lapping waters. And that painful image of his pale father lay in the center of all the abstract realities that floated around, the one link in the chain that mattered most. But where did it lead? What lesson was to be learned, and what answer lay before his eyes?

_Have you ever killed an elf, father?_

Closing his eyes, he released his footing and sank deeper into the water.

_That is why you must continue to fight them, Legolas._

Orcs and elves.

Elves and humans.

A human village razed by an elven king.

Revenge.

Looking up from under the water, he held out his hand toward the glimmering source of light that danced beyond the far surface of the broken waters.

Fractured truths, scattered realities. And no answer to the puzzle, no ultimate truth.

The last rays of the sun caressed the surface of the water. Legolas watched swirls of yellow hair dance across the aquamarine surface, breaking through the unyielding thickness. He closed his eyes.

Ada would be worried.

His back touched the floor of the tub. Then his shoulders, and then his legs – and then solid ground was under him, and he could sink no further.

He lay still, feeling the hard marble floor beneath his bones. He wished he could sleep forever encased in this warmth; he was weary.

Legolas of Mirkwood was no longer a messenger of peace, protector of light. He was no longer a valiant warrior who fought to protect his home, dirtying his hands for the most innocent and primal cause. The stains could no longer be cleansed; he was no longer innocent. He was no longer in the side of the right.

He shuddered. When had his world come to this? This confusion, the meshing of right and wrong and the disappearance of good and evil, a dance of desire and greed and power and fear – this was what his life was, what it had been throughout his years of ignorance.

Slowly, he pushed himself upward, back up toward the distant light.

No, he could not return. Not yet. He had to resume his search as soon as possible, and find the human. The human held the key; he had answers.

Breaking out of the heavy surface, listening to the slashing of water as it broke its cocoon and tumbled back into peace, he slowly opened his eyes. The sun was setting into a streak of red. Narrowing his eyes against the prism of light, he inhaled deeply.

He could not stay for long. He would ask the Rivendell elves about the humans that had come, that the twins had tracked. He would ask about the human trail that had led from the outskirts of Mirkwood, the trail that had vanished near Rivendell. And as soon as he was rested, he would leave.

Taking in another deep breath, he rose from the water, and leaped onto the marble floor. He had much to do.

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_**To Be Continued**_

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	2. Alone

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

,

By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

,

_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 1: Alone**_

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_Nimble feet ran through the forest, sidestepping obstacles that blocked the path. This part of the forest was completely blocked with fallen wood and heavy boulders. _

_He deftly sliced through a spider web, his knife glazed in silver threads and dew._

_The dark creatures of the forest had taken residence in the abandoned path, taking full advantage of the many boulders and fallen trees that constructed useful shelter and shadow. Such occurrences were unheard of, for the elves fought to protect their lands from the evil beings; every bit of land was precious, and the elven warriors guarded them fiercely. They would not leave a trail-worn path to the hands of the vile creatures of the woods. _

_Which meant the path was abandoned for a reason. _

_Silver mist clung to the trees as he made his way deeper into the path. Searching hands pushed aside wild shrubbery and gnarled branches, as he climbed over boulders and brushed through bushes of fern. _

_The path was blocked. Intentionally blocked by hands, hands that did not wish to grant entry into the forsaken lands that lay beyond. _

_At last he came upon a clearing, or what had been a clearing many a year ago. Long weeds and grass swayed against his knees. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of white. A white-clad old man…?_

_He ran toward the direction of what he saw, an ancient instinct guiding his way. He had been here before. The fog blinded his sight, but it was of little importance. He knew this place; he could almost grasp the memory of it – and yet it was hidden in the mist, out of reach._

_Quickened breaths rang against his ears, moist and hot in the chill of the fog._

_Feet skidded to a halt. Azure blue eyes widened. _

_Before him lay a village in ruins, a desolate wreckage of what had once been a settlement. The rotting wood showed signs of age; houses were unrecognizable, shops and huts crushed to bits. The ground was scorched, blackened as deep as the eye could see. No life breathed in the wreckage; it was as if the site of destruction was under a curse. Everything was preserved as it had been left._

_Slowly, he approached a nearby pulp of what appeared to be a crushed hut. Gray-white rubble crumbled at a slight brush of his feet. Planks of burned wood caught his step; he could not enter. Tearing his gaze away, he looked around, and approached another trace of a bigger building._

"_Well, well, well."_

_He whirled around, hands flying to his bow and an arrow. Guarded blue eyes stared into the mist._

_A shadow moved against the silver fog. From behind a remnant of a cottage appeared a muscular young man with dark hair. Straightening his back and shuffling what appeared to be large scrolls of parchment, he looked up at the young elf. And smirked._

"_So we meet again."_

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Sunlight warmed the garden, bathing the contented song of the birds. Bees were droning busily. Summer was at its peak.

Perched in a tree, Legolas closed his eyes.

"Legolas?"

Looking down, he quickly leaped down to face a tall golden-haired elf standing by the tree.

"Lord Glorfindel."

The older elf smiled. "Did you sleep well last night?"

Returning the smile with a faint smile of his own, Legolas nodded. Breakfast had been a relief from the nightmares that had taken hold the previous night. Surrounded by the lively chatter of carefree elves, he had momentarily forgotten his fears, basking in the everyday simplicity of normalcy. Yes, he felt more at peace than he did the night before. Now, if only this feeling would last through the night...

"Why are you armed?" Glorfindel raised his eyebrows.

Legolas stared, and with sudden realization, touched the bow strapped on his back. He had never armed himself in Rivendell gardens before. He smiled wearily, finding no answer. Glorfindel's expression turned serious.

With a grave air, Glorfindel bent closer. Legolas tensed as a soft breath tickled his ear.

"You are late for your meal." A warm whisper.

The older elf's eyes twinkled as younger ones widened in horror.

"Why didn't you tell me-"

Grabbing Glorfindel's sleeve, Legolas began to dart toward the house. He could hear the balrog slayer's chuckle from behind as he was dragged along.

"My, our Thranduilion must be getting old, hmm?"

Legolas shot back a scowl. Glorfindel laughed.

The meal was starting when the two blond elves entered the dining hall. Lord Elrond raised an eyebrow as young Thranduilion rushed in, dragging a smiling balrog slayer. Erestor silently moved aside as Glorfindel took his seat, and a flushing Legolas quickly took his usual seat opposite of Erestor.

As quiet chatters filled the room, Legolas sensed that he was being watched. Looking up, he met the bottomless black of Erestor's eyes.

Erestor did nothing to hide that fact that he was watching; he continued his stare quite openly. Legolas' thoughts raced to find a reason for this scrutiny. Had the account of his journey the previous night been too short? He had left out the part about his father, and closed the story rather prematurely. Elrond had asked why he had left so soon without the twins, but he had only smiled in response. Lord Elrond never pressed him into speaking. He was nowhere near as vexing as his juvenile father.

_Wait_, he thought wryly, _I'm_ _the juvenile one_.

Wrenching his lingering thoughts away from the memory of his unconscious father, he looked down at his food, noting with dismay that very little of it had been removed from the plate. With an inward sigh, he brought a spoonful to his mouth, barely noticing the taste. If he could be in this jumbled state of mind every time he went out into the wild, he could survive off of dirt and caterpillars. The thought brought a dry smile to his lips. _What a strange mind you have, Greenleaf,_ he said silently, and halted his thoughts too late. His memory threatened to linger on the pet name that only his father used for him since childhood, and the youth chewed fervently, willing his mind to clear, to focus on anything but that.

He watched Glorfindel lean to whisper something to Erestor, and the councilor nodded. Legolas wondered if he should ask why he was watching so. But then, something in him did not want to know. Did not want to face him. Any of them.

He nearly spilled his glass of water when Lord Elrond mentioned the name of Arwen in passing.

"Arwen?" he looked up, puzzled, and Lord Elrond turned his way.

"Arwen is returning from Lothlorien."

"So soon?" exclaimed Legolas. Immediately his mind chastised him for letting his caution slip; he hoped his response would pass as innocent surprise. Fortunately, Lord Elrond did not seem to think much of it. He only smiled.

"She heard that you were in Rivendell, and wanted to tie you down here until your begetting day."

Eyes turned upon him. He looked around, and found Glorfindel's amused expression, Erestor's unreadable one, and Elrond's fatherly smile.

"But my begetting day is not until next spring," he protested. "It is still summer."

"It will be autumn soon," mused Glorfindel. "And Arwen was afraid that she would not be able to see you again for another decade or two." He laughed when Legolas scratched his ear with a guilty expression.

"So," said Lord Elrond, amusement twinkling in his eyes, "She is determined to make you stay through winter in Rivendell."

Legolas breathed slowly. The prospect of meeting Arwen was glum at best. She would hear about the men who came to Rivendell in search of Legolas. Then she would tell Lord Elrond about her own experiences with the men who hunted them down on the way to Lorien. Then she would also speak of the scars that had marred Legolas' back when he arrived here a season ago. Then conclusions would be drawn, questions asked, questions he could not answer...

"When is she due to arrive?" he asked, hoping he sounded nonchalant.

Lord Elrond dipped into momentary contemplation. "In several days now, I believe."

Legolas bit his lip. He would need to make good his escape by then. He knew Arwen well; once he was in her clutches, there was no escape unless she wished it.

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The young prince paced the balcony restlessly. The evening breeze cooled his skin, but it had no such effect on his fervent mind.

Arwen would return.

He would have rejoiced upon the prospect of a prolonged stay. The trips between Mirkwood and Rivendell, made by Legolas and the twin sons of Elrond, had become less and less frequent in the past years. Darkness had begun to grow back in the depths of Mirkwood, and the paths were no longer safe for an unsuspecting traveler. Legolas had taken up patrol duties in early adolescence, and Elladan and Elrohir had begun orc hunts as soon as they reached their majority, returning home occasionally for celebrations and recuperation. Arwen never came to Mirkwood, as she only frequented Lorien and Rivendell. And as the years passed, correspondence between the three elven realms had tapered.

And he still had not kept his promise to Haldir.

Moaning, Legolas ran frustrated fingers through his hair. As much as he wanted to spend the winter in Rivendell – and what a delightful occasion it would be, with the twins arriving soon and Arwen present – he could not tarry. He would find no rest until the object of his search was found.

Decided, he turned around, and stared up into the darkening sky.

He would ride out to escort Arwen. Being a fool that she was, she would most likely be traveling alone. He would join her from the road. Then he would have to beg her to let him go...and resume his search.

Legolas leaned against his elbows, letting his eyes wander beyond the railings of the balcony. The trees were darkening, the grass swaying under the twilight wind. He closed his eyes.

_So beautiful..._

He jolted. Suspicious eyes darted around. The darkness answered him with taunting silence.

_Breathe, Legolas. Breathe._

His heart was pounding madly against his ears. He blinked rapidly. Haunted whispers wrapped around his ears, the screams, the pain. Was this what Nana had felt before she died?

He shook his head. He had promised himself never to think about it again. Never blame himself again.

Fighting the urge to shiver, he stared out into the darkening valley, concentrating on the gardens, the trees, anything. Anything to keep his mind from wandering into the forbidden territory.

But he could not fight the sudden lump in his throat.

_Ada..._

He wanted to go home.

What had happened? What had happened that he could no longer see his father in the eye? Why was there now an unbridgeable gap between his father and himself?

Why had he healed that orc?

_Stop it,_ he whispered fiercely. _Stop your self-pity. Stop questioning the past. You followed your arrogant heart without regret; you now pay for your actions. _

Heaving in a deep breath, he turned around and re-entered his room. Darkness was beginning to creep into the room. The silence chilled his bones when his eyes rested on the lone candle burning away on a small table.

A sudden terror swept him up in a wave of panic, and he found himself gasping for breath, stumbling away from the candlelight.

The darkness was suffocating. But the flickering candlelight was a beacon that lit the path to a long-forgotten nightmare.

Turning away from the room, he clutched the railing of the balcony, searching the darkness of the world outside. He wanted the candlelight gone. He wanted the darkness to disappear. He did not want to face this alone. He was alone.

The sudden realization crashed down upon his shaking heart, and he was thrown into numbing darkness.

_Ada..._

He had had conflicts with his father. His father, his strong and benevolent father, was beginning to become a meddlesome, oversensitive presence in his life. But Legolas knew that it was he who had changed, not his father. He was going through the turmoil of adolescence, and he had created a gulf between himself and his father.

And now, he could no longer cross the gulf, for the darkness within it had become too great.

"Legolas?"

A soft knock sent a jolt through his spine. Turning swiftly, he backed away, eying the door. The voice came again.

"Legolas, are you in there?"

Glorfindel.

Relief rushed through his veins, burning away the darkness of the room. He released a broken breath. "Please, enter."

The door swung open. At the uncrossed threshold stood the older elf, dark blue robes wavering at his feet. And across the distance of the room, Legolas stared back, a frail young shadow against the darkening skies.

"What are you doing in the dark?" Golden hair swirled into the room as the elf stepped in; suddenly the chamber was brighter, his heart lighter. Glorfindel quickly proceeded to light the candles around the wall, and the dark, hushed room suddenly came to life.

"You seem weary," said Glorfindel, lighting a candle by the bed. "We missed you in the Hall of Fire."

Legolas blinked. They were probably expecting him. Excited, no doubt, to hear the tales of his journey.

Well, this journey had no tale to tell.

Taking a deep breath, the young elf smiled. "Forgive me. I have forgotten." He stepped into the room, facing the elf who broke into his desolate solitude. Glorfindel turned from the last candle.

"Will you accompany me to the Hall of Fire? Or would you prefer to rest?"

_Will you stay with me?_

The unasked question lingered on his tongue, and the youth stood silent.

The air around Glorfindel stilled. His instincts were keen; his dark eyes, those magnanimous waves of blue, began to crystallize into a deep, penetrating light. Legolas stepped back as if burned.

"I am tired," he said, and smiled uncertainly. "Forgive me, Lord Glorfindel."

_Stay with me. Go away. Leave me alone. Do not leave me._

His knuckles were white. Glorfindel's eyes followed the veins that slowly rose, pumping with heated blood. He slowly stepped closer.

"Are you certain?"

Legolas flinched. Glorfindel reached out, and gently placed a hand on the youth's shoulder. A light shudder rippled through the elf's body. Glorfindel's eyes darkened.

"I am well, Lord Glorfindel." The youth let out a forced smile, wishing that hand would go away. Wishing that Glorfindel would go away. He did not want company. He needed to be alone.

Slowly, the hand released him, and Glorfindel drew back. His eyes were thoughtful as he turned toward the door. "Very well, then. Rest, Legolas."

Legolas bowed as Glorfindel opened the door.

_Do not leave me alone._

The door closed quietly.

Suddenly realizing that his hands were clenched into fists, Legolas slumped onto the floor. His room was so bright. So bright.

And he was alone.

Biting back the call that resounded from deep down his throat, Legolas gritted his teeth.

He had left Ada behind. He had pushed him away. Had refused to share his pain, refused to be comforted in the forgiving arms.

It would not be impossible to do the same with Glorfindel.

Looking up slowly, his eyes focused on the dark wooden door. Closed. Closed from the rest of the people, trapping him alone in the solitary room. And he chose to stay amid the blazing candles. Remain alone, uncomforted.

He had done it before. He could do it again.

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_**To Be Continued**_


	3. Closing In

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

,

_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 2: Closing In**_

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_Legolas stared at the parchment in his hands. Blinking, he looked up at the man, who thrust the rest of the scrolls into his arms._

_Slowly, Legolas unrolled one of the scrolls. His eyes widened upon the sight that greeted his eyes. _

"_How...when..." words left his lips, hung unfinished in the thick fog. Words caught in his throat as he hastily unrolled the next scroll and then the next. Hands became frantic as they looked through them all. At last, he dropped them, glazed eyes unseeing. The singed parchments fell through the hushed air, gently settling on the burnt ground._

_The man chuckled, and bent down to pick up the scrolls. Legolas watched dully, unable to think, as the man rolled them up and tucked them under his arm. _

"_So you are Legolas, as these scrolls say." He cocked his head. "Indeed, I begin to understand what that artist saw in you. You are quite alluring."_

_Legolas blinked. The man laughed._

"'_Tis no wonder Rolof knew your identity. Doubtless he has been here already. Did you know that he is an artist as well? He probably has more." He grinned. "Such priceless treasures."_

_Legolas remained silent, paled eyes trembling. _

"_When...?" he whispered. The man cocked his head. _

"_Why, I thought you could tell me. After all, this village must be familiar to you. You were there when it happened."_

_Legolas gritted his teeth, lest the man hear the clattering they threatened to make. He did not understand._

_Why was he in a portrait? In countless portraits, drawn in a hand that he did not know?_

"_I tried to kill your king," said the man, sobering, "but you now see that he took everything away from me too."_

_A hot breath spread against the air. "You are wrong," whispered the young elf. _

_His father would never massacre innocent people. He would never. He would never._

"_You do not know," he whispered feebly again. His heartbeat was now a dim murmur. The proof was here; the forsaken land with a destroyed village, and evidence – of what? He did not understand. But the man had to be wrong. "Perhaps the village was destroyed," he whispered. "He would never kill innocent people. Perhaps they fled, and you were separated. Perhaps if you search for them-"_

"_Search for them!" The barking laughter ripped into the air. He wanted to plug his ears. _

"_Search for them, Legolas? After more than a decade has passed? Search for them where?" He stepped closer, and Legolas stepped back. "They were banished from our kingdom, and they had fled a long way. They had made a settlement, to start anew. And your king killed them all." He stepped closer again. "And if they were spared, where would they have gone? Where do I find them? Or will I find them at all, the bones that probably lie decaying somewhere in the wild?"_

_Legolas tried to breathe. "You cannot believe everything Rolof says," he whispered weakly. The man laughed again._

"_Perhaps not, Master Elf. All I know is that when I come to be reunited with my family, I find a burnt down village with your portraits. And an older man who tells me that the elvenking has massacred my people – poor, helpless, innocent people!"_

"_They were criminals!" cried the elf. _

_The man started. Silence settled in between them._

_A slow grin spread across the face of the man. With cold dread, Legolas shrank back._

"_So you do know, do you not?" The man came closer. "You were there. You saw it happen. You knew the people!"_

"_No!" The young elf shook his head, fervently. "I know not what this is about!"_

_In an instant, the man snatched up the lithe elf's collar, and snarled in his face. "Do not lie to me, elfling," he growled. "You at first had no idea what this was about. Then you try to get away from Rolof, you lie about your identity, and then you say these people were banished criminals." He shook the trembling elf. "Now tell me that you know nothing!" _

"_I know nothing!" came the desperate cry. "I want to know – I want to know just as you do!"_

_The man's eyes flashed. He pushed the lithe body to the ground, crushing down with his own weight. _

"_I will show you what happened," snarled the man, panting. "I will show you. I have heard enough about Rolof's father to guess."_

_Coarse fingers began to tear at the thin tunic, and all thoughts went white. A muffled gasp resonated in the heavy fog, and the silver mist continued to hang over the trees, thick and silent._

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Legolas woke with a start.

Pillows lay strewn about the floor, dampened sheets tangled about his feet. Panting, he closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow. No matter how many times he replayed the events following his departure from the palace, answers remained elusive. With a sigh, he rose from the bed. He had breakfast to attend to.

Then he stared at the window in horror. The sun was high above the clouds; it was already midday.

With a silent curse, he hastily dressed himself, and ran out the door with fingers tangled in disheveled hair. He was trying to straighten the strands when he turned a corner and collided into a slender elf. He stumbled back, hastily bowing low. "Forgive me," he said, only to be answered by soft laughter.

"No need to run, Legolas. Breakfast was cleared away long ago." It was Lindir.

Seeing Legolas' deflated expression, Lindir grinned. "We would have woken you, but Lord Glorfindel told us to leave you to your rest. He said you looked tired last night." He leaned forward to peer into the youth's face. "But the kitchen elves left food for you, don't worry."

Legolas pulled on his hair with a sigh. Lindir reached out to help smoothen a strand sticking high above the youth's head. "You can go back and brush your hair now. Although," he added with an impish twinkle in his eye, "I wouldn't mind it loose. Or rather, certain young elves in the house wouldn't." He chuckled.

Legolas scrunched up his face. "That was scandalous and embarrassing and entirely your fault."

"Hmm? I don't remember explicitly telling them that you were a maid." Lindir made an innocent face. Legolas scowled.

"You let them believe I was! Do you know how many days, and how many flowers, love poems and serenades, it took for me to clear up the misunderstanding? And in the most embarrassingly public way imaginable?"

Lindir shrugged. "Well, what can I say? You are lithe and fair, and have beautiful hair; 'tis no wonder elves mistakenly stare."

"Eru, no, not another rhyme," Legolas groaned. "Last time you did that, the entire valley was singing of Legolas the starry-eyed."

Lindir's eyes twinkled. "And with your hair flowing loose today, the valley will have more to sing about." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Legolas the fair-haired."

"I don't know why I keep coming back to Rivendell." Legolas turned deliberately back toward his rooms. He could hear the minstrel's tinkling laughter in the distance.

"Because you love us, little Leaf," called the distant voice. Legolas sighed as he reached his doors.

_Let me show you how much I love you..._

He swayed, and leaned against the doorframe.

"Legolas?" The voice was alarmed. Legolas did not look back.

"I am well - just need some air." And without a second glance, he hurried away, toward the courtyard.

Left alone, Lindir frowned. "What ails him?" he muttered.

Despite his best efforts, the charming young Thranduilion was not himself. Did symptoms of adolescence include fitfulness? He searched through his memory for his own adolescence, but could grasp no such examples. He had been, as far as he could remember, an outstanding example of a temperate, well-mannered adolescent. But then again, Erestor tended to disagree on the matter.

"Nothing really," slid up a quiet voice. Lindir scratched his head. Speaking of whom...

The dark-clad advisor silently stepped closer, standing side by side with the minstrel. Together they watched the youth pace in the gardens.

"He is not himself," murmured Lindir.

"He is being hunted by humans for a cause he knows naught of," replied Erestor thoughtfully. "His anxiety is understandable."

"I suppose." Lindir contemplated the thought. If Erestor said so, it had to be right. Brushing away the suspicion, he turned to Erestor with curious eyes. "Did King Thranduil really massacre the humans, as they say?"

Erestor turned his gaze from the gardens, and glanced at Lindir. "Do you believe that, Lindir?"

"Of course not," muttered Lindir, resting his gaze on the youth again. "But from the way Legolas explained it, they seemed desperate for revenge. Perhaps Thranduil had mistakenly killed one or two, or burned a town by accident..."

He glanced up to find dark robes wavering away down the corridor. "Erestor!"

The advisor did not turn. "Put your inquisitive mind to better use, fair minstrel," he called, before disappearing down the hall.

The minstrel pouted. But he whirled around and cheerfully entered the Hall of Fire. One could always use encouragement, however subtle, from Erestor.

,

,

,

Legolas paced under the sun, feeling strangely ill.

Rolof.

The face flashed before his mind. He had desired to keep Legolas for his own purposes. And after tricking Elladan and Elrohir into freeing him from his bonds, he had escaped Mirkwood, leaving trails to Rivendell. Except the trails did not enter Rivendell.

What was he waiting for? Legolas paced unsteadily. Did the man realize that he was being followed? How could he disappear so skillfully all of a sudden? And why was he headed to Rivendell, the exact destination that Legolas would have found ideal for himself?

A cold chill crept up on his stomach. Legolas clenched his hands.

Could it be that _he_ was the one being followed?

He stopped and looked up at the sun. The light made him dizzy. He closed his eyes.

The men had been annihilated by orc attacks, but Rolof was alive. And so was Gama; they had met at the site of ruin, before Legolas began to track Rolof.

'_Tis no wonder Rolof knew your identity. _

He tried to gather his thoughts, forcing his whirring mind to slow.

It was possible that Rolof was making these trails. It was possible that he had teamed up with Gama. It was possible that Gama was trailing Legolas. But it could all be his imagination.

He opened his eyes again, facing the sun. The golden rays were ripening into the warmth of autumn. He shivered.

Arwen would arrive soon.

He turned around, and began to stride across the garden. He could not stay under these watchful eyes, count these solitary nights. He could not face the questions Arwen would bring; he could not risk her safety. Though it would be improper to creep away from his hosts in the dark of the night, his heart burned brightly with dread; he could not wait until next daylight.

He passed the back courtyard, and entered the central gardens, where a great white fountain lay. It had been built by Erestor, with instruction from Glorfindel, in memory of the fallen people of Gondolin. His eyes caught the golden trickle of the sun in the waters. After a moment of hesitation, he neared the fountain, rolling up his sleeves. Lowering his fevered face, he reached for the water – and halted.

The sun danced in the waters, headed for the peak of noon. Dazzling rays of gold bounced upon the surface, blinding pieces of light.

Such beauty.

The brightness of the sun did not cease to shine, and the sweetness of the birds did not falter, despite the darkness in his heart.

Such beauty. And he was tainting it.

Azure blue eyes stared back, wide and troubled. A young face watched him, a visage of beauty that blended tender childhood with the chiseling of adulthood.

_You are beautiful..._

With hideous contempt marring his face, the youth repulsively drew back, with a vicious swipe at the reflective water. With a splash, the fair face was broken, disfigured.

Unveiled disgust distorting his features, the prince violently whirled around, stepped forth – and jumped back, breathless.

Staring into his darkened soul was the gaze of the lord of Rivendell.

,

,

,

The prince's room was often occupied. The king, who had barely begun to move on his own, stayed almost all day in his son's room. What he did in there all day, nobody knew. But anyone could guess.

Seated upon the prince's bed, Thranduil sighed. A hand ghosted over a golden comb resting on top of the prince's drawers.

"I try my best," he murmured. "But I am not perfect – you, of all people, know this." A sad smile fleeted past his lips. He stared down at the comb. "I thought I had gone mad. I did not kill them, but it makes little difference. I would have slaughtered them all, had they not slaughtered each other."

He smiled wistfully.

"But if such a thing were to happen again, I am not certain I would act differently."

_You are the king...you always make the right decisions. Your people trust you._

He closed his eyes, letting out a tremulous sigh.

"My heart burned when he asked me if I had really destroyed that village. Was it shame?" A wry smile faded as swiftly as it had appeared. He breathed deeply.

_You do not fear making decisions..._

"Aye, but that is because I fear indecision." Thranduil chuckled. "I am afraid of being indecisive. And now I wonder if I had made the right choice."

He brought the comb close. A hand caressed each tooth of the comb slowly, lovingly.

_Thranduil..._

"As much as I wish to be honest with him, I cannot." He opened his eyes, glazed and vacant. "I cannot tell him what he had experienced."

_Ada..._

A strangled laughter escaped his throat. He collapsed onto the bed, and stared up into the ceiling.

"What kind of a father am I...?" Another quiet laughter escaped his lips. "I wish you were here. You would know what to do."

With a shimmering haze in his eyes, he closed his lids, and continued to lie there, motionless.

,

,

,

Darkness was coming.

Legolas looked up at the candlelight in his room. Its soft edges seeped out through the balcony. And with it, darkness rushed before his eyes, threatening to engulf him in a bottomless abyss. He took a deep breath, willing the shadow to fade, as he adjusted his bow and quiver.

Lord Elrond had said nothing. He had only watched the youth lie on about nothing being amiss. They were watching – all of them.

He headed away from the house, passing the gardens and crossing the practice fields. He stopped when a rustle of trees alerted his ear. He glanced around uneasily. He was yet within safe borders; nothing could harm him here.

Another rustle.

An arrow was notched in lightning speed, and Legolas was breathing heavily into the dark. He suddenly wished he had gone inside, spent another night in this haven. But he could not face the people, the dance of the solitary flame. He brought his arrow up to point at a figure outlined by the house lights. He lowered his bow.

"You startled me," he breathed, hoping his voice sounded as flippant as he had intended.

"Practicing, at this hour?" said an unreadable voice. Legolas forced a smile.

"I thought it would help me sleep."

"Ah."

The tall silhouette stood as still as a statue, a golden halo trickling down his shimmering hair. Legolas' heart scorched. The warmth and light beckoned, promised safety and bliss. And this golden visage stood before him, the powerful figure reverberant with the promise of protection, infinite wisdom, with the strength to hold the crumbling world together and soothe him into blissful rest – just like –

_I am sorry...but you cannot be my father..._

"Legolas!"

He blinked, finding himself supported by a hand upon his arm. He stared up into dark blue eyes.

Not Ada. Glorfindel.

_My father will come looking for me..._

Where were these words coming from? He shook his head. "Forgive me," he murmured, "I must have lost my balance."

Silence settled uneasily. Glorfindel slowly moved away.

"When your heart is troubled," murmured the warrior, walking languidly to a large wooden container in the corner of the practice field, "let your mind forget, and the body take control." He reached into the container, and whirled toward Legolas. Puzzled, the younger elf caught the sword that flew his way.

Glorfindel drew another sword from the container. "Let us see how much you have improved over the years."

Slowly shedding his bow and quiver, Legolas took a few steps back and poised himself. He had done this countless times; Glorfindel was the one who had taught him to shoot moving objects, Glorfindel was the one who tested his skill whenever he visited Rivendell. It was a familiar routine, a comforting gesture. He launched into attack.

The battle was fierce. Glorfindel was no longer a calm observer who blocked blows; this time, he moved in to attack, occasionally forced to defend himself against the pressing onslaught of the younger elf. The prince was fast becoming a deadly warrior.

But something else was there, this time. A strange glint in the younger elf's eyes, something that felt akin to hatred, fear. An edge of desperation laced his movements. His heart drummed faster, faster – and the world began to spin. Grass swayed beneath his feat, the world becoming a chaotic murmur, the drumming of his heart drowning out all other sounds around him. And as they danced in battle, flowing with liquid grace, the grass spun, and fire was erupting before his eyes and soon he was engulfed in red, nothing but red, everything was a hot, suffocating, soundless prison of red, a spinning world of fire and blood –

And a flash of gold, underneath his blade.

With a cry, he sprang back. Glorfindel lay on the grass, staring up in perfect calm, as Legolas tossed the blade away from his shaking hands. The sword fell soundlessly against the grass.

The moonlight was back on his face. Night winds cooled his damp skin. He was back in the havens of Rivendell, staring into the deep blue eyes of Glorfindel. Deep blue eyes, dark golden hair. This was Glorfindel. Glorfindel.

Glorfindel rose. "You never drew back before," he said. "You have forgotten these blades are dull."

The panting young elf blinked. Indeed, training swords were blunted for sparring; he had used them every time he sparred in Rivendell. He knew – should have known. What had happened? He could see it all over again, Glorfindel allowing him to upsh him down, Glorfindel watching as he aimed for his heart, just as he had aimed for his father's –

With a gasp, he ran shaky fingers through his hair. "I lost concentration," he murmured.

Glorfindel picked up Legolas' discarded sword. "Accustomed to battles now, hmm? But you must always keep your head about you." Picking up his own discarded sword, he turned toward the house. "You will be no better than a war-mongering orc if you let your body slaughter thoughtlessly."

Legolas felt faint.

Slaughter was what he did best.

He had healed an orc, he had gone mad with its memories. He had almost killed his father.

He was no better. He was worse.

Glorfindel stopped to glance back at the motionless youth. "You have improved, Legolas."

Legolas managed a feeble smile.

"Come back inside."

The golden shadow disappeared into the house. Bright lights embraced the merry songs that seeped from the windows. And Legolas stood alone in the darkness, unable to enter.

Glorfindel knew.

Legolas picked up his bow and quiver from the grass. Clutching them to his breast, Legolas turned away from the house, and looked out into the darkness closing in.

He had to leave this place.

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,

,

_**To Be Continued**_


	4. In the Path of the Forefathers

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

,

By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

,

_**Road to Redemption**_

,

_**Chapter 3: In the Path of the Forefathers**_

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"_Stop!"_

_Legolas fought to throw the heavy man off. The wet soil was cold under his back. His breath hitched when calloused hands ran over his chest. _

_It felt so strange._

_No gentle caresses of love, no deft massage of friendship – and yet no blade ripped his flesh, and no punch bruised his bones. Insistent fingers continued to explore his skin, and Legolas felt sick. _

_Why was he touching him like this? What kind of revenge was this?_

"_It was because of you."_

_Legolas stilled. _

"_Because of you, your king burned down my father's village... I have wandered for years in solitude, leaving my child brother behind in a stranger's house, damned to never rest until I avenged my father..." Gama lifted himself and stared down. "Because of you."_

_The elf stilled. _

_If this could quell the vengeance in the mortal's heart, and turn his arrow of hatred away from his kingdom and his father..._

_Gama looked down at the young elf's chest, scouring his body with his eyes. He looked vaguely ill as he reached forward to jerk open the elf's tunic. Legolas' eyes widened in foreign terror._

"_Stop!"_

_He knew this touch. He had felt it in the memory of the orc, the foul touches and forceful hands that held him down. Though his memory did not extend to what followed – due to Elladan and Elrohir's intervention – he did know this terror. It was what had prompted him to attack his..._

"_Please," he whispered. _

_Ada. Ada. This man is hurting me in ways I don't understand. Make him stop. I am scared._

_A savage cry tore through the mist. _

_A black streak flew from the side, and Gama was tackled onto the ground. The elf quickly sat up, trembling hands clutching the loose tunic. _

_The human regained his composure swiftly; before bared fangs could bite down upon his neck, he kicked the orc away, and managed to wrestle free from the grip. The orc jumped to its feet, and snarled with a fume of death._

_Gama backed away. _"_Protected by an orc," he mumbled, before turning swiftly. "We shall meet again, Legolas."_

_The man disappeared quickly into the fog. The orc did not give chase. Instead, it turned to Legolas. The youth stared numbly._

"_Are you...the one I healed?" he murmured. _

_The orc stepped back, and poised itself with a snarl. Its eyes glittered with dark malice; there was no coherent thought, no recognition. It was a failure of its creators, mutilated with an elf's face and an animal's intelligence. The elf smiled wearily. _

"_Was it out of instinct...? Because you saw me reliving your pain?" He began to lace his tunic. "Or is it because you remembered me...?"_

_The orc leaped. Legolas closed his eyes. _

_,_

_,_

_,_

A darkened room and a lone candle light.

_You cannot be my father..._

Trees whipped past his face, scratched his skin. Dirt skidded by his feet. Eyes were distant, unseeing, as he cleaved the darkness of the night, stumbling away from the heart of the hidden valley. The touches were crawling on his skin. And heated breaths on his neck, and whispers...

_Forgive me, Roloth...but you cannot be my father..._

_Roloth..._

_Roloth...?_

His body skidded to a halt, and his feet flew over a boulder. The slender body flipped into the air, dark against the night sky. It crashed onto pebbles and weeds, and rolled down the hill.

The moon was silent.

Fevered panting shook the silence of the night. The young elf rose, and began to walk. He was oblivious to the pain that flared up in his knee, the various scratches and bruises that laced his body.

Roloth. He knew that name.

He was alone in the wilderness when he heard the movement. He raised his eyes. Before him stood the tall man. Legolas did not move.

The man tilted his head. "You come out alone in the dark of the night, without your elf-kind?"

"Where is Rolof?" The youth's voice was sharp.

Gama shrugged. "Waiting for you somewhere nearby."

The silence was brief. The young elf's eyes shone feverishly. "What do you seek of me?"

Gama's expression darkened. "What do you have to offer?"

Legolas was hesitant. "You will be generously compensated, if you go to my king," he said slowly. "Though I realize this may sound insulting considering your family's- "

"You are right in that!" spat Gama. Legolas flinched.

Gama stepped closer. "I will not rest, elf, until I see him suffer what my family suffered," he snarled. "Until he suffers his children wandering the wild, lost and helpless; until he loses as much as I did, which was everything. Everything!"

The elf fought to stand his ground. "You would seek more ruin," he tried, "when you may seek aid, to seek a brighter future." He breathed heavily. "Your child brother – what of him? Would you have him continue to wait for you, earning his living as a stranger's ward, until your bloodthirst is sated?"

"Logic comes easy for you, little elf," snarled Gama, "because you have not lived your life festering in anger and despair."

The elf lowered his gaze. "Gama." His voice was hushed. "I beg your forgiveness. On behalf of my king."

Gama stared down. His expression contorted into a strange mask of pain.

"Your kind," he breathed, "passes on its sins to be carried by its children."

"Please," Legolas repeated, "forgive us, Gama. Forgive my king."

A thick silence settled between the two.

Gama began to circle the young elf, as would a vulture appraising its prey. "You could fight me, run away, bring back an army – and yet you beg forgiveness." He stopped behind Legolas.

"I desire no hatred upon him," breathed the elf. "He has done you wrong. You deserve justice." Dark lashes lowered, and blinked mournfully. "But I love my king."

With a grunt, Gama grabbed the elf's collar. "Follow me then," he growled, "Rolof and I shall decide your punishment." He pulled, and stopped when feet skidded upon the ground.

Legolas stared back, wide eyes trembling with terror unknown. "No," he breathed.

"No?" A twisted smile began to appear upon Gama's face.

Legolas stepped back, only to be viciously pulled forward by his collar. "No. Not Rolof."

"Precisely," spat Gama. "Precisely my point." He turned fully to grab the young elf, who ducked out of the way. A vicious struggle ensued, muffled in the silence of the night. Heated breaths mingled as the elf kneeled before the man, caught in the man's grip.

"Gama, I beg you," he whispered fervently, "I will do anything. Anything to give you recompense. But please, not Rolof."

The man's eyes narrowed. He stood before the elf, a towering shadow against the distant moon.

"You kneel for your king," he mused. "I would have your king kneel before me, young elf." He violently pushed the elf onto his back. "I would have him beg forgiveness, while I punish him for all those years of misery he cast upon me."

Legolas sucked in a trembling breath.

"I hate all of you elves," he snarled, as tearing sounds could be heard, fingers flying in the dark. "I hate you all for turning me into this. I hate your king!" With a screeching tear, the tunic was torn open.

With a strangled cry, Legolas struggled abruptly, blinded by panic.

"No one can hear you scream, little one," whispered the man, crushing the elf's shoulders against the hard ground. Pebbles and patches of weed lacerated the skin of the elf. "If not Rolof, then I will help you remember."

_Let me show you how much I love you..._

"Stop!" The cry was a feeble.

_You were there at the village..._

_You knew the people..._

He should not have come out into the night. Legolas fought to breathe as fervent hands fumbled with the remainder of his clothing. He could no longer think; the night was spinning, spinning out of his sight. His eyes rolled back.

And then, he screamed.

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Anxious murmurs milled about the front of the Last Homely House as hoof beats approached. Lights flared to life as torches and lamps gathered in the courtyard. The tall warrior leaped off of his horse, holding a limp youth in his arms.

Turning swiftly, Elrond led the way to the House of Healing. As the warrior elf followed, Erestor trailed behind, dispersing the milling elves with curt commands.

It did not take long for Elrond to check for injuries. The slender body was scratched and bruised, but otherwise untouched. Erestor slipped into the chamber and stood by Glorfindel as Elrond looked upward.

"What happened?"

Glorfindel's gaze burned into the limp body of the youth. "Do we not know?" His voice was strained, bitter. "Did we not already know?"

Silence thickened. With a soundless rush of his robes, Erestor disappeared out the door. Glorfindel closed his eyes.

"I was late, wasn't I?" The whisper was voiceless. "He denies you entrance."

Elrond looked upon the youth's determined face, determined to keep all probing healers at bay. Gray eyes turned toward dark blue, and Elrond rose slowly. "I will heal him," he said, his gaze flitting from the shifting light in Glorfindel's eyes, to his bloody lips, to tangled wisps of hair. "I will heal him."

"It is too late." The night air unfurled as Glorfindel looked away. "He lingers in darkness – and he is too young, too innocent, to understand what has happened. He cannot even cross the threshold, to fade."

Elrond did not know what to say. "There will be a way," he said uncertainly. "We will heal him."

"Will we?" Tumbling blue threatened to sweep Elrond in its wild currents of sorrow. "When will Erestor be able to stand here with us, without running away?"

Elrond's breath trembled, silent.

The crickets did not sing. Glorfindel turned, and slumped onto a chair. His eyes glazed, forlorn, as he gazed at the unconscious youth.

"Forgive me," he whispered. A pale hand rose to rest against his forehead, shielding his eyes. "I seem to have grown no wiser since my adolescent years."

A mournful silence caressed the dark of the night.

Elrond slowly approached the warrior elf, and gently fingered disarrayed strands of golden hair. Glorfindel's head bowed. "How will I look at Thranduil in the eye again?" The voice was thick, broken. "How will I watch his raging grief a second time?"

The elvenlord gave no answer. He soundlessly wrapped his arms around the lowered head, enveloping the golden warrior into the warm shadows of his embrace.

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Gama strode into the clearing, when the man by the fire looked upward.

"Where is the elf?" the older man inquired, frowning as Gama shook out dirt and twigs from his hair. Gama growled.

"Lost him."

The older man's expression darkened. He glared menacingly at the younger man. "You lost him?"

"I was outnumbered, Rolof." Gama irately plopped down by the fire, and held out his hands toward the flames. The nights were becoming cooler with the scent of autumn.

"What happened?" said the older man, just as irritated. Gama glowered.

"I was only going to scare him a bit," he said, "but some other elf showed up on horseback before I could bring him." He paused upon the dubious look the other man gave him. "He threw a sword at me, Rolof. A sword! And it almost chopped off my head."

An exasperated sigh escaped Rolof's lips. He crossed his arms. "What will you do now?"

Gama leaned over the fire and poked at one of the potatoes with a twig. "He will leave sooner or later, following your trail. Then we can close up on him."

"So?" Rolof demanded.

Gama shot him an irritated glance. "We will have revenge, or course."

"How?" Rolof was watching him suspiciously. Leaning back, Gama crossed his arms.

"The elf-king took my family. He either killed or banished the villagers. All fifty of them." He cocked his head. "I shall have to demand the same loss."

Rolof snorted. "You said the king seemed to be without a queen, and he looked too young to be a father. And how will you make him turn over his people to you?"

"Elf-children are known to be treasured," said Gama proudly. "If I hold the elf-child hostage, his clan will resent the king should the king not comply with the demand; either way, destruction within the elf kingdom is inevitable."

Rolof stared at the young man's smug face. "That is the most ridiculous idea I have heard since your plan to turn the elves against each other back in the -" he suddenly stopped, realization dawning upon his features. "If we catch the elf," he growled, "you are not going to harm him. Do you understand? Leave his body unmarred."

Gama laughed mockingly. "Oh, I think it is too late for that. I do believe I awakened some unpleasant memories in that pretty head of his. He called a name of Roloth."

Rolof bit back a growl. Throwing a twig into the fire, he stared into the flames. "We are wasting our lives on meaningless acts," he mumbled. "If you ask me, I would choose pleasure over revenge and hate." He looked up at Gama. "Let it go, Gama. Enjoy the chance given to you. The child is a gem."

"I do not have your sickly mind," snapped Gama. "I care for my missing family, not some pretty boy-child's body!"

Rolof's expression darkened. He threw another twig into the fire. There was silence.

"All the same," murmured Rolof, "leave him unmarred."

"So that I can offer him, untainted and pure, to you?" sneered Gama. He sat up straight. "Have no fear, Rolof. I find no pleasure in boy-children, and if I do mar him, it will be out of vengeance, not lust."

"There is little difference," muttered Rolof. "The consequences are the same."

"They are not," snapped the younger man.

Silence reigned once more.

"He is mine," said Rolof suddenly. "I was the one who found him; I was the one who recognized him and told you the story. You would not even be here if not for me."

Gama's eyes glittered. "If I remember correctly," he snarled, "it was your father who harmed the child and earned the wrath of the elf-king. It was his deeds that brought on the destruction of the village, and further banishment of the people – my family included!"

The night was dark. Silence was laced with crackling of the fire.

Rolof ran a weary hand through his hair. "We are treading the path of our forefathers," he murmured. "They tried to live new lives."

Gama leaned back against a tree, dark eyes burning into the flames. "Even so, they met no better fates." His voice was bitter.

The two remained silent, as the fire continued to burn away.

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_**To Be Continued**_


	5. Blue

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

,

By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

,

_**Road to Redemption**_

,

_**Chapter 4: Blue**_

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,

,

_The orc leaped. Legolas shut his eyes. Cold teeth sank down on a bared shoulder. _

_Legolas smiled weakly. He opened his eyes. "I suppose it may be because we taste better than humans…"_

_Against the wishes of his father, he had healed an orc. And his father had paid the price. _

_He had staked his all on this. Against his father's wishes, he had healed this orc, had staked his all on those anguished screams of pain. And his father had paid the price._

_Legolas slowly raised an uninjured arm, and pulled out a long knife from behind his back._

"_I wished to heal you..." _

_The teeth sank deeper. Warm blood trickled soundlessly, soaking into cloth._

"_I wished to see your pain...understand you. I wished to cease fighting..."_

_The orc growled, and wrapped its arms around the elf. Hard nails dug into the youth's back. _

"_I wished to restore you to your former life...I wished you could smile again."_

_The knife rose in the air. Legolas closed his eyes._

"_Forgive me."_

_The orc pulled with a triumphant howl. The blade came down. The orc stilled. The elf leaned forward, head bowed woefully against the orc's ear, as he pulled the orc into an embrace._

"_But I cannot choose you over my father."_

_The dawn was silent. The young elf remained still, holding the dying creature in his broken arms, embracing with the warmth of his blood the last of the ideal hopes of his adolescence, severed b his own hands. _

"_Forgive me."_

_The dawn remained ever hushed. _

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Erestor was ignoring the persistent gaze behind his back as he worked. They had been upon him all morning. When at last the tall elf detached himself from the doorframe and moved closer, he turned.

"What?" he snapped. "If you're going to waltz in without knocking, you might as well tell me what you want."

The blond elf stood at the doorway, and let out a faint smile. He bowed slightly. "Forgive me, dear Erestor. But I am a creature of habit, and am not accustomed to knocking on my own doors."

Glorfindel watched with a carefully masked face as Erestor looked around, his dark eyes alight with realization. Erestor turned back to Glorfindel with a scowl. Glorfindel tried to look grave. Erestor threw a scroll at his head.

With a laugh, Glorfindel caught the scroll and ambled forth. The slender advisor shuffled his papers, sweeping off a stack of books from the table. "I'll be back for the rest," he said, looking down at the scattered scrolls on the table. Glorfindel collected the scrolls and piled them into his own arms.

"I will help you," he said. "Walk with me?"

Erestor stood, chewing his lip. He took a breath, and held it again. He set the books back down, and slumped into a chair with defeated resoluteness. Glorfindel seated himself on the other side.

"Have you been to him?" whispered Erestor, staring at a point on a wall.

"Yes."

Erestor's gaze remained fixed on the wall.

Glorfindel sighed. "I know not what to say. I know not what to do."

The advisor remained unmoving.

"I fear to speak, lest I increase his pain. I fear to touch him, lest he fear me and recoil." Glorfindel's voice began to strain. "I fear to not touch, lest he think himself tainted."

Dark robes swirled as the lithe elf rose. In the seeping rays of the sun, a black pendant flickered a dazzling white near his chest, before fading away into dull black once again.

"What can I do?" he began to pace. He threw a glance at Glorfindel. "Tell me, friend. What can I do?" He came to a stop before the motionless warrior. "I see myself in his suffering – I am thrown back into that abyss of inescapable time. And yet I am no wiser than when I was the tainted Pearl of Eregion." He leaned in, eyes dark and unfathomable. "Tell me, Glorfindel of Gondolin. Share with me your wisdom. What would you have me do?"

Glorfindel looked up, silent. Then he reached out a hand, and pressed it gently against the black pendant. Erestor stood still as warmth pressed upon his heart.

"My dear brother," breathed Glorfindel, deep blue eyes tumbling with emotions unknown, ages unseen – "you need not seek answers from me."

Erestor closed his eyes.

How many ages had it taken, for him to shed the blood on his hands, this Black Pearl of Eregion? How many seasons had come and gone as sorrow sifted his unseen tears?

And yet, as he wept in shadows, his mourning soul awash with heated tears, he had slowly become more transparent, more bright, as he transformed into a lucent black crystal of Imladris. No, he would need no answers; for the seasons had seen him grow, the light in his eyes and the clarity of his tongue, the rich silence upon which he looked into another soul – he conjured no answers, and yet he was the crystal of sorrow, the jewel of weathered time.

The black pendant twirled as Glorfindel slowly took his hand away. Erestor looked down. The edges gleamed a hollow white, reflecting the light of day. He looked at Glorfindel's ageless smile. And then, he was gone.

Glorfindel rose. In silence he looked out the window, at lone youth sitting on the grass.

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_I wish I could be your father..._

_You were there at the village..._

_They died because of you...you...you..._

The sun was shining.

A vortex of sounds crashed against his ears. Among the deafening silence, he was aware of the warmth of the ripened sun that caressed his back, the cool autumn breeze that brushed past his face. Clad in a light blue tunic, his back bared of its usual array of weapons, he was slender, almost delicate.

A fair-haired elf invaded his sightline. He turned to look, following the long yellow hair tapping in the wind. A long sword. A sculpted face, a very young face – and yet a swirling sadness of unfathomable depths in blue eyes. This visage had been a part of his small, unchanging frame of the world in the past day – or days? He was not sure. Constantly watching him, silent, distant. Another part of the beautiful scenery.

Disinterested, he turned away, and idly sifted his gaze among the trees.

The birds were singing. Bees were droning, and leaves danced in the wind, rustling their whispers. And the sky was a clear azure blue, as had been the color of Nana's dress. And the sunlight was as ripe as the deep gold of her tresses, the breeze as gentle as had been her caresses.

Somewhere deep down in the depths of his mind, a tempest was raging, but the sunlight was warm. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of autumn leaves.

A gentle rustling came by his ear. He turned his head to watch a river of black hair waver in the wind. The slender figure sat down next to him on the grass. Pure white robes flapped in the wind, a bright white fire against dancing strands of black.

And together they sat in silence, staring at the sky.

"Erestor."

The dark-haired elf did not respond. Strands of gold mingled with black, whipping against the breezy air.

"Did the child ever heal?"

Slowly, distant blue eyes met black orbs, and the youth's eyes were trembling, tumbling waters.

"Will he ever completely heal?" His voice was a whisper.

Silence.

_He had agreed to give up sovereignty over his body for a price. If he faded, he would be unable to ensure the others side kept the promise. Therefore...he did not fade._

The dark elf's eyes were deep, aglow with the light of the years he had seen, the ages of sorrow untold. The younger elf dropped his gaze woefully.

_You were there..._

_He had agreed...he did not fade..._

_Your knew the people..._

The voices drummed in his ears, and the singing of the birds was ever sweet. Life was painfully colorful, bright and merry. And his heart continued to pound erratically, the invasive voices crashing against his ears.

A tentative hand reached forth. Hesitant fingers brushed the surface of the black crystal that hung at the older elf's heart, a glint of white under the sun.

Larger hands reached up, and firmly wrapped trembling fingers around the cool black crystal. Erestor turned fully toward the younger elf.

Pale blue eyes widened when slender arms suddenly wrapped around his limber body, tightly, fervently. Cool hair pressed against his neck.

"Ai, Legolas," breathed the older elf, a heated whisper – "it was not your fault."

Young eyes froze. His rigid body fell limp as he was pulled closer, closer to the warmth that beat against his ears, the infinite white fire that burned at the center of muddled shadows. The roaring of his heart was quelled by a greater wave, a distant rumbling of something more deep, more blue – and the rumbling grew, beat against his heart like a breaking wave, threatening to rip out of his throat. And under the silence of the golden sun, frozen time was crashing, crashing with the voices that haunted his dreams, shattering into a million shards of fragile light he held in his hands.

And caressing the rising wail of the child, the gentle winds that scattered the mournful tears were blue – so blue.

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_**To Be Continued**_

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**Author's** Note: Yes, directly quoted in this chapter is the epilogue of _The Dance of Shadow and Flame_. ;)


	6. Crossing Paths

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 5: Crossing Paths**_

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It was another tiring day.

Elrohir heaved a breath, having at last reached solid ground. He had never spent so much time up on trees in his life. How these wood elves could do it every day, he would never know.

He joined the sentinels at the gate, where spirited words and raucous laughs were exchanged as guards counted tallies. A fresh team was setting out to take his party's place, sharing a pat on the back and a friendly slap on the arm as they crossed paths. How such lightheartedness could emanate from those who had to fight every day to survive, Elrohir would also never know.

Entering the palace halls, Elrohir headed for the public bath with his fellow patrols, until he spotted Elladan standing by the entrance.

"We need to speak." Grave eyes looked into his.

Elrohir nodded, and turned toward the halls with Elladan. Words of greeting were thrown their way as they passed by elves, heavily armed and light of feet. The elves here seemed always aglow with energy. The life that breathed in these halls was of a different synchronicity from that of the Imladris; the vibrant green energy in the heart of darkness was a stark contrast to the golden warmth that gently embraced the hidden valley. The magic here was an ancient kind, permeating from the land itself - a reverberant tremor of life that hummed through their veins. It was a refreshing change from their drudgery of cross-country orc hunt.

Elladan closed the door to the guest chamber they shared, only to turn and find a trail of soiled clothing littering the floor. With a scowl, he stooped all the way to the bath chamber, picking garments off the carpet.

"You are such a royal disaster to our hosts, Elrohir," he muttered. Elrohir laughed from the steaming bath.

"Only when you are around to clean up my mess, brother."

Elladan piled the clothes into a heap by the door. "If only you decide to mature sometime even around me," he commented wryly, and could almost see Elrohir's grin.

"Whatever for, brother dear? I have the privilege of torturing you for the rest of my eternal life."

Elladan entered the bath to find Elrohir chest-deep in water, eyes closed and head rolled back. Patches of dust and dried grime clung to parts of his skin. Elrohir made no move to clean them.

The older twin sat at the edge of the tub. "We found the village."

Elrohir slowly opened his eyes.

"It seems that Legolas was there recently, and so were humans. There was also – a portrait. Fifteen years ago."

Silence dripped away.

"I gave it to the king – I think one of the men caught in the melee managed to escape; we found a human trail leading from the castle to the village. He's an experienced hunter. The King thinks it might have been the young man, the leader of the group."

Elrohir turned to stare at his twin. Elladan met haunted eyes. "Both his trail and that of the man we freed at the forest entrance lead southwest," he concluded.

"What does this mean?" Elrohir whispered.

"Nothing, yet," said Elladan curtly. "Rivendell simply happens to lie in that direction. Legolas' trails mingle with those of the humans, but nothing as far as we could see indicates a struggle."

Elrohir frowned. "What if he went with them?"

Elladan shook his head. "They probably missed each other on the same track." Rounding the tub, he kneeled by Elrohir, and tapped his shoulder. The wearied twin raised his back from the marble, and Elladan rolled up his sleeves. He began to wash Elrohir's hair, as the younger twin slowly scrubbed his body free of grime.

"All the same, brother," breathed Elrohir, closing his eyes, "King Thranduil is recovering quickly."

Elladan nodded. "We will return to Rivendell."

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The arc of elves watched as the youth strapped on his quiver of arrows, and turned to face them.

"Well," he said, not quite meeting anyone's eyes.

Elrond smiled, and stepped forth to pull the youth into an embrace. "May the Valar protect you."

Legolas smiled as he returned the embrace. Stepping back, he turned to Glorfindel with an impish grin. "I'll be back for a rematch."

Glorfindel tilted his head. "I apologize, was that a match? I thought we were doing post-dinner stretches."

Legolas looked indignant.

With a laugh, the tall elf pulled the youth into his arms. "Events shape us, Legolas," he murmured against soft golden hair. "We are cut and whittled by what touch us, but in the end, a broken stone still remains a stone."

Legolas nodded. When released with a pat on his head, he turned to Erestor.

Erestor tilted his head, expression blank. Legolas slowly moved closer and wrapped his arms tightly about the advisor. "Thank you," he murmured. Light fingers squeezed him slightly in response.

"The child continues to heal," murmured the older elf. "He lives and heals, because he wishes it."

A smile appeared on the youth's face. "I shall try to be as strong as he," he whispered. Erestor wordlessly stroked his hair.

As Legolas pulled away and turned, Glorfindel was clenching and unclenching his hand. Erestor's hand caught it beneath the folds of his robes and held it firmly in place. They remained silent as the youth bounded down the steps and vaulted onto his horse, and the blue winds bore the child away.

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The dark steed was galloping at top speed, creating a dust cloud in its wake. Legolas urged his horse to meet the dust cloud.

"Legolasssss!"

Arwen raised herself from the saddle, arms open wide, and leaped into the air. Horses crossed paths as the maiden knocked the surprised youth off of his horse; together they rolled onto pebble-laden ground, laughing breathlessly.

Before Legolas could groan, Arwen quickly lifted herself off of her cushion of a prince, and pulled him up onto his feet. "Legolas, you came to greet me! How wonderful. Now on our trip back to Rivendell you can hear all about how those dreadfully boring Lorien brothers of yours tried to entertain me, poor souls."

"Boring? Which one?" Legolas dusted himself.

"The second one."

"He's a sweet soul, Arwen. I think you scared him senseless." Legolas smiled as he reached out to dust Arwen's hair. "Did Rumil's dreadfully boring presence drive you back so soon?"

"No, I was aiming to catch you before you left again." Arwen held up her hand. "No, wait, brother, I know your line about orcs and spiders and such. But the patrols can do without you for a winter, and Mirkwood will still be left standing, I assure you. It's been so long since we last celebrated your begetting day!" When Legolas opened his mouth, she clamped her hand over his lips. "Furthermore, Elladan and Elrohir were planning to spend the coming winter in Rivendell too. We'll be all together again! Why not ask your father to come too, Legolas? It will be most delightful this winter!" Her eyes sparkled with thrill. "I can just imagine!"

Legolas smiled helplessly. The way she spoke of it – he could almost see it, a quaint winter evening by the fire, everyone gathered around for a game of chess, Glorfindel's storytelling, Lindir's song. The vision was so wonderful it scorched his heart.

Taking Arwen's hand, he turned toward the lounging horses. "Come, Arwen. Let us head back."

The two mounted their horses and started off toward the valley, when Arwen suddenly looked around. "Where are those troublesome brothers of mine? Are they making you fetch me while they throw themselves into another wreck?"

The prince laughed. "No, Arwen. Quite the contrary." He glanced around. They were entering the hidden valley; no danger would befall them now. "Arwen, your brothers are in Mirkwood. They will be… staying a while."

Arwen paused. Legolas did not elaborate. Arwen's brows creased. "Legolas."

"There are men abound," continued Legolas, gaze averted, "men who have a vendetta against me and my father. I cannot stay."

Realization dawned on Arwen's features, and her fair face darkened. "You came to escort me home before leaving," she said flatly.

Legolas inhaled. "Yes."

Silence.

At last, Arwen sighed. "I came in haste because I saw you in pain," she said, meeting the fleeting gaze of surprise on the prince. "What has happened to you?"

Legolas' lips formed a faint smile. "Nothing that cannot be healed."

"Legolas." Arwen pulled her horse to block Legolas' path. He dared not look. Arwen had the gaze of her father, the ability to make one willingly shed the barriers of one's heart. He closed his eyes.

"Please, Arwen," he whispered, "do not use your gift on me."

Arwen chewed on her bottom lip. Wordlessly she stared at her companion's averted gaze, and then abruptly looked away.

"I will not force you to speak." Her voice was edged with bitterness. "Go and do what you must. But-" she turned toward him again, touching his arm, "come back before winter. Will you promise me that?"

Legolas smiled wistfully. Arwen sucked in her breath, her heart sinking with the sorrow in his eyes.

"I wished to see the first snowfall with you and your brothers," Legolas said softly. "I wanted to stay until spring, celebrate my begetting day with all of you. But I no longer know if such a thing will be possible." He caressed her hand, gently pulling them away from his arm. Their fingers intertwined. "Darkness is coming, Arwen, in my home and my heart."

"You are in pain." Arwen gripped his hand. "You are hurt."

Legolas shook his head. Bringing their entwined hands to his lips, he kissed her knuckles, and released them. "Don't be sad, sweet Arwen." He smiled. "I suffer no more than all else of our kin."

When he pulled away, Arwen reached convulsively, pulling his face between her hands. "Why do I feel-" knuckles whitened, and her voice quivered with dread – "as if this is the last time I would lay eyes upon you for centuries, for millennia?"

Legolas smiled. "Some day, I shall ride to Rivendell once again." His heart knew it would be true; it beat with the deep tremors of prophetic surety. "And I will be bright and carefree once more."

Arwen shook her head. "My heart feels that by then, I will have fallen to pain and grief." Her hand fell away, and Legolas held it fast.

"Then I shall pass my smile unto you, as you have passed your smile unto me today."

Arwen nodded slowly. Her heart clenched with foreboding, a dark premonition of pain and grief that lay ahead. She prayed that the smile he wore as he pulled away was not the last she would see from him.

"May the stars shine upon your path," she whispered. Legolas' steed broke into a gallop. "My heart shall weep until it sees thee again, brother mine."

The first autumn leaves were falling.

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The grass swayed unsteadily. The trees were whispering. They were afraid for him; they warned him to hold. But he did not.

Galloping against the eye of the gale, he continued on, toward the darkness that welcomed him to the paths of Mirkwood. He would reach the outskirts of the woods soon; then he would be safe. If the humans showed up again, he could lead them back to the kingdom, have them questioned before his father. He would trust his father to judge; no longer would he ask questions to his father, throw those jagged words that made his father's shoulders stiffen in silence. No, he would accept his father's words, he would go back into those arms.

He was being chased fast, and he knew it. Broad daylight in the open plains made him a sure target. But the forest loomed near; he almost sang with relief as his eyes began to make out the forms of the trunks that lined the forest. And then, a silent scream fell upon his ears. A warning.

He turned his horse abruptly, lowering his head out of instinct, when the first dart whizzed by his ear. He urged his horse on.

But the steed swayed, and with a loud neigh, staggered against its weight. Legolas shifted as his steed crumpled to the ground, groaning, twisting. Its tail beat against the grass as its hooves kicked the air. He reached for the dart embedded upon its leg as another dart sang.

Humans. He had underestimated them.

He almost smiled as he felt the prick upon his side. _Foolish young Leaf_, he chided himself. _Letting your emotions run away with you again..._

He was so close. But Mirkwood remained yet to be reached.

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Elladan held out his hand to catch a falling leaf.

"It's him all right," declared Elrohir, straightening. "These knife marks are definitely his."

The two remounted their horses, and Elladan allowed the leaf to slip through his fingers. It twirled in the air, flying a short distance away, before soundlessly coming to rest upon the bloodied forest ground.

They were near the Mirkwood borders. And all around them, strewn about the forest floor in a crowded trail, was a bloody carpet of decapitated orcs.

"This is unlike him," murmured Elrohir. "What had happened at that ruined site, I wonder?"

Elladan gave no answer, but he could guess. He had recognized the dead orc – it was the one the young prince had healed before succumbing to insanity. And he had seen the crimson blood upon the orc's teeth; he also knew the shape of the fatal knife wound on the creature. And in the pale silence of the mist, human footprints and elven blood had tapered away, and the cold body of the orc had remained alone, its gaze enraged and shocked as its silence told the tale.

And from there began the path of slaughtered orcs.

Elladan inspected the bodies as they passed them by. Not a single extraneous wound; the killing blows have been dealt with speed and accuracy, and no other injury – one that may cause more pain, or give the slightest chance of survival – was present.

"Our little Leaf has turned from the path of a healer," whispered Elrohir. Elladan clenched his teeth.

Whereas the twins wandered the lands with a mad thirst for revenge, this bloodbath was different; there was no rage or revenge written on the bodies of the orcs – only a deadly gleam of a methodical killer, dealing deathblow after deathblow. Brutal slaughter was what it was – and within the efficient massacre burned a frigid fire that made Elladan want to weep.

"Come, Elrohir." With a deep inhalation, Elladan spurred his horse on. "Let us hurry."

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Legolas woke to a terrible headache.

The stone ceiling loomed heavily above him, admitting no hint of natural light. He quickly sat up, and fell back with a cry. Air rushed out of his lungs; his head pounded, and his heart began to beat wildly. He was tied down. Onto something large, hard, and flat.

Taking shallow breaths, he turned his head to confirm his suspicions, tugging at the soft cloth that bound his wrists to large nails protruding from the stone tabletop. He quickly raised his legs to vault backwards – when he found that he could not move them at all. In fact, he had no sensation at all in his lower body. His wrists, tightly bound, barely registered dull pain. What had happened?

A dart. Yes, a poisoned dart – no, not poisoned. Drugged.

Forcing a calm breath, he looked up at the ceiling once again. It was familiar, this feeling of enclosed darkness. The dizziness, the numbness, the helplessness…

_Roloth_, his mind answered dully.

And then, he remembered. And he knew.

"Finally awake?" said a voice from his left. Eyes flew open. Legolas was staring into Gama's curious eyes. The young man held up a half-roasted piece of meat. "Do you elf-kind eat meat?"

Legolas stared wearily. "If I do, are you going to hand-feed me?"

Gama burst into laughter. "So your spirit hasn't changed. I'll give you respect for that." He leaned in closer. "And yes, I'll hand-feed you and keep you company here, until we have our answer."

"What answer?"

"You will see." Gama straightened. "I will not harm you yet, young one. At least, not until it all truly begins."

Dread clamped around the youth's heart. "What begins?"

"My revenge, of course."

Legolas slowly blinked. "Where are we?"

"Close to your home. You led us on quite a chase."

"Where is Rolof?"

The young man bit down on the meat. "He's delivering the message. You should be glad that I sent him, instead of going myself. You won't find him pleasant company, if you know what I mean."

The young elf continued to stare up at the ceiling. Gama cocked his head.

"How far will the elves go for their children?" He sounded genuinely curious. "Or will they cut their losses fast? Do you believe someone will come to save you?"

Legolas breathed deeply. He would have to wait until the sedatives wore off. Chances were slim that Gama would leave him unguarded, but at least he could lead the man to believe that no more sedatives were necessary. Then he could do something about these bonds...

Would someone come looking for him?

He closed his eyes. Yes, he knew two stubborn elves who would be hot on his trail as soon as they got the chance. But with him so helpless, their coming signified even a bigger disaster. He would be used. And the twins would be vulnerable.

"No one will come," he whispered.

Gama drummed his fingers. "We shall see. If the elf-king decides to cooperate, you will be released. If he refuses, then we will have to just make an example out of you." He cocked his head. "Perhaps cut you into fifty pieces or so...I do believe that was the correct number of villagers. We shall see."

Legolas did not open his eyes. He was afraid of what his eyes would behold if he opened them. He feared that they would only see darkness.

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The king's study was dark, save the roaring fire in the hearth. Before the hearth stood the solitary shadow of the king, draped in a loose robe hanging over a bandaged chest. Loose hair tumbled freely down his shoulders, reflecting the gold of the fire; he stood unmoving as a statue, back turned against his writing table, on which lay an arrow and a crumbled parchment that had been wrapped around it. It was a dusty yellow parchment, frayed and charred – and on it was a charcoal sketch of an elf-child, sitting on a barren bed with a thin blanket draped just above his naked thigh. His innocence was frozen in time, his childlike youth forever captured in the hand of the artist. And underneath it all lay a scrawny human handwriting.

_Justice shall be served._

The king remained unmoving, his back against the parchment, glassy eyes riveted on the dance of the flames. And thus he remained, a blazing statue of gold light and stark shadows, unmoving through the darkness of the night.

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_**To Be Continued**_

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	7. Two Roads

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 6: Two Roads **_

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Elladan watched as Elrohir dusted himself. "The evidence remains, no matter how many times we check. They did not enter Rivendell."

The human tracks stopped at the outskirts of the valley; only Legolas' trails continued into the havens. "What shall we do, Elladan?" Elrohir looked up at his twin. "Shall we enter, or shall we continue our search?"

Elladan frowned. "One simply does not disappear like that," he muttered. "They either managed to hide their tracks extremely well all of a sudden, or dropped dead."

"Even as dead," said Elrohir, "they cannot disappear like this. There must be some remains, even after scavengers have had their share."

"Maybe Legolas brought the remains into Rivendell," said Elladan wryly. "We saw the way he slaughtered the orcs."

Elrohir groaned. "Elladan, let's not get morbid. He wouldn't kill humans as he would kill orcs."

Elladan shrugged. "He healed an orc once, and now he's on an orc massacre."

Elrohir frowned, but raised no dispute.

"Well," said Elladan, breaking the heavy silence, "let's enter first. Ada will want to see us, and they may know something of Legolas."

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Mirkwood bustled with newfound energy as the king returned to his duties. Reports were efficiently made, and so were the responding instructions. The king moved with easy grace, eyes alight with steely sharpness. All was back to normal. At least, that was what the elves dared to hope.

When the reports were finished, however, the king took out a worn parchment from the folds of his robes. "We have a message from the human survivors," he said. The hall fell into tense silence.

"An elf-child is held captive in their hands. They demand fifty elf-maidens in exchange for his life. If we do not comply within a fortnight, he will be executed."

The silence remained frozen still. The king leaned back against his throne.

"I pray you, speak, my lords." Ice blue eyes glittered as he scoured the room in measured calm. "Your king awaits your counsel."

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Elrohir paced around the room. Elladan watched, leaning against a wall.

"So, the men were still after him," muttered Elrohir.

"They probably wanted to attack him from front and back," supplied Elladan. "Glorfindel said they were waiting by the borders."

Elrohir grunted thoughtfully.

"But the men failed thanks to Glorfindel, and Legolas left for home, and then… " Suddenly, Elladan straightened, "they left with him."

"What?" Elrohir looked up.

"That's why their trail ended here," said Elladan, meeting his brother's gaze. "They didn't go any further – they waited for Legolas to leave, and trailed him back to Mirkwood. That's why we didn't see a new trail – they retraced their steps to hunt him on his way back!"

Elrohir's face swiftly took on a calculating look. "Then they must be-"

"Together," concluded Elladan, grabbing his sword from the wall. "Arwen said Legolas came to get her, which means he knew the humans were still hunting him. If any of them reached Mirkwood, we should have run into them by now." Gray eyes met. "He was intercepted."

Elrohir grabbed his quiver of arrows from the table. "Let us go."

Together, the brothers rushed out of the Last Homely House, back into the wilderness.

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"Send the troops, my lord."

"I shall ride as well, my lord."

"Sire, allow me-"

The hall began to fill with a clamor, elves stepping forth and raising their voices, until the king held up a hand. "Do you advise that I send a battalion of warriors to these humans?"

"Mirkwood nurtures skilled warriors, my lord," said the captain of the guard. "A rescue party awaits your command."

"A dangerous choice," muttered a dark-haired advisor, "judging by their demands, these humans are mentally unhinged."

Murmurs and snickers rose, and Thranduil let out a thin smile. "The humans do offer an alternative solution," he said, glancing at the parchment. "The child will be sent back, if the king of elves relinquishes sovereignty over a portion of Mirkwood to the human exiles."

Silence.

The king tilted his head. "The tongue of the wood elves is frank. Speak, my kinsmen; give me your counsel."

The elves looked at one another. Silence stretched on until the dark-haired advisor stepped forth. "We cannot risk the safety of the prince with a rescue party. I suggest we send fifty warrior maidens."

The king squinted at his parchment. "The humans require these maidens to be blinded."

Enraged clamor erupted in the hall. The king raised his hand and silenced the din. "The humans know how precious we deem our children," he said. "What say you, Lord Tembor? The second option promises safety for all."

"Not worth mention, my lord," cut off the advisor. "The humans deserve a good pounding on the head for the sheer stupidity of that proposal."

The king raised his brows. "Nay, you say?"

"My king, you come from very far lands," said Tembor's patient voice. "You and your father were welcomed into the hearts of the people when you relinquished the knowledge and enchantment of your prosperous cousins for the rustic ways of the wood elves." He looked around the silent hall. "The Silvan elves were not overtaken; we had chosen our king. And you, the youngest of us, now stand at the heart of our courage which keeps us strong during these dark times. No, my king, you shall not relinquish a single arm span of your people's land."

There was silence. The king stared wordlessly.

Tembor lowered his gaze. "Since the day you took the throne, darkness has overcome our home, and we were forced to retreat into caves, battle every day for survival, alas – and yet you are hailed as the greatest of kings, and the tongue of the wood elves is frank."

The tension washed off of the hall like a wave. The king looked around. He set his lips in a grim line.

"The king may send you to death to save one child," he said darkly. "He may march you into the fires of Mordor for a fight we cannot win."

His eyes traveled to each advisor, each scribe, each healer and minstrel. "My Silvan kinsmen, you were offered a human alliance against your king. You are free to accept such offers as you will. You are not bound to me by blood, or by oaths of allegiance. If there be an older elf, or wiser, or braver, who can hold the heart of the kingdom better than I – or if you wish to go back to the ways of the Silvan elves before the arrival of the Sindarin kin, speak, and I shall be but a simple warrior fighting amongst you. If you do not – you will remain with a king, who may ask you to march to doom at his whim."

Silence.

The elves' exchanged glances were no longer uneasy. The king looked suddenly very young among them.

"My king," said a soft voice from a corner. It was a dark-haired healer. "You test us with words of deeds that you have never performed, nor ever will. But if you do order us to march into the fires of Mordor, we shall do so, for it is none but your bidding."

The king was still.

Expectant eyes stared up at the king. Tembor glided to the foot of the steps that led to the dais. "We await your command," he said.

With a shuddering sigh, the king slowly closed his eyes. Suddenly, he was weary. So weary.

"Forgive me my foolishness," he murmured. "I am but a simple elf with two roads under my feet. Bid the guards hold, Lord Sadron."

The elves bowed silently, the air entangled in sorrow, as the king exited the hall.

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Back where he lived, there was darkness, but there was also light.

In the midst of the night-black forest, he would run and leap among trees, and slay orcs and spiders. After a long hunt, he would return, worn and wearied by the weight of blood that rested on his hands; and the gates would open before him welcomingly, radiating in the phantasmal glory of the ancient runes, the age-old prayers and whispers and tales about what had been good in this world, what had always remained bright amid the darkness. And his weary heart would be lifted, and a smile would graze his lips as he would stride into the doors that opened for him, enter the halls, and bow to the king who sat upon the throne – and he would talk and laugh and sing while sharing a goblet of wine with his father in the quiet study, watching the dance of the flames of the hearth in the winter, listening to the crickets under the moon in their summer night strolls. And his heart would be at peace.

Such peace had dimmed, cast aside by his own hands.

And yet his heart remembered, and yearned for those times again, the memories of light that shimmered amidst the droning shadows that threatened to overwhelm his soul. The faint golden melodies of yore haunted his clouded mind, singing gentle comfort amid the restless heat of anguish.

"I still can't believe this was the Legolas all along," muttered a guttural voice from his side.

The elf's mind was still floating in a dreamlike haze, blissfully trapped in its own prison, as rustling and scratching noises invaded the silence, and the smell of roasted meat filled the air. Legolas had lost track of time; the flow of time was arrested in the darkness where no light could reach, and in the small space occupied by two men and an elf, time was left to stretch and contract as it wished, and sometimes halt altogether.

"Such a clever young one we have here," muttered another voice, and a soft touch outlined his jaw. "Right under our noses the entire time, and playing us with strings attached."

"Only because you refused to tell us that he was Legolas," retorted the younger voice. "You planned on using the rest of us to seize him, only so that you could snatch him away for yourself."

"Well, one must find some good out of every bad, no?" A light laughter. And coarse fingers were tracing his neck. "It is no wonder that my father was taken with your beauty," whispered the man. "I, like him, find you pleasing to my eyes."

Slowly, rivulets of hair shifted; the young elf's head turned in his direction. Rolof smiled. The elf's gaze was dull and distant. Rolof raised his hand and ran it along the fevered flesh of the youth's cheekbone.

"Look at what the years have done to us..." The elf did not respond as the man proceeded to stroke his face. "I am now a man mid-age, staring down at the rest of the hill of my life...and you are aged but four or five years at best, at the exalting blooming of youth. I am withering, but you have yet to face the pinnacle of your beauty." Fingers stroked a pointed ear. The elf did not move.

"Why did you drug him so strongly, Gama?" growled Rolof, raising his body from the youth. He glowered at the younger man on the mud-spread floor, who was poking at an unrecognizable animal staked above a small fire. Gama shot a glare in Rolof's direction.

"If you are looking to make him more responsive to your sick touches, you are giving me the wrong reason to complain."

Rolof snorted, and turned completely away from the elf. The pale eyes closed wearily.

"I helped capture the elf," growled Rolof. "I do not see why you claim such rights over him."

Gama's gaze flitted upward from the meager flames. "You planned on using us for the possession of that trophy," he growled in a low voice. "The rest of them died!"

"As you had left me to die," retorted Rolof, nearing the fire. "It was your idea to enter the forest and get yourselves killed with ridiculous greed."

Gama pursed his lips, resentment plain in his eyes. Wordlessly he turned, and poked at the meat again.

Rolof gave an exasperated sigh. "You are so full of bitterness, young fool," he muttered, before turning away. "Release your age-old anger and you can start a new life so much happier."

"I have no need of a lecture from a child fancier," snapped Gama.

Rolof only grunted, and neared the elf again. Seeing the eyes closed, he frowned, and placed a hand upon the elf's forehead. "He is hot," he murmured.

"Get your filthy paws off, old man," called Gama, poking at the meat one more time before picking it out of the fire. "I want him unmarred when I return him home. I am a man of my word."

Unheeding, Rolof slid a flinger along the elf's shoulder. "If the king actually sends fifty elves, you mean," he said. "You do not know if the elf-king is a man – or elf – of _his_ word."

Gama tore out a leg from the roasted animal. "We will see, once we go to the appointed meeting spot tomorrow. He does not know where we are, and he can't ambush us with a captive in our hands anyway."

"What if he doesn't respond?"

"Then we will make do with one elf," retorted Gama between mouthfuls. "Do you have any idea how many brothels are cropping up these days? Men would kill for that elf-child."

With a grunt, Rolof detached himself from the elf and withdrew toward the small fire. "I'd better have my share before we sell him," he muttered.

Gama ignored him. "So," he said, turning toward the elf, "do you think a messenger will come to the ruins tomorrow?"

"Do _you_?" asked Rolof incredulously. "To give up so much for one little elf? Our king wouldn't."

Gama shot the older man an irritated glance. "Our king does not take revenge upon a whole village for the damage of one child either." He turned back to the elf. "Which shall it be, Legolas?" he called. "Send fifty grown elves in exchange for a child captive, or safely give up a portion of his land?"

Legolas did not answer.

Would his father send fifty elves to possible slavery to save him? Or give up a stragetic point of their land, to be overrun with spiders and pronounce possible doom for the kingdom?

_Would you, Ada?_

He did not know. He knew of his father's love, but also knew well the responsibility that ran parallel in the king's heart. What would he do? Would he sacrifice his people for his son? Or would he sacrifice his son for the people?

He shuddered. He suddenly did not wish to know.

Rolof poked Gama's side with a finger. "I think you drugged him to delirium," he whispered. "I told you to use the sedatives sparingly."

Gama glowered, but did not answer. The two men ate in silence.

Legolas was floating in a world of dreamy haze. Where time came to a standstill, he could return to his childhood, any time of it that he wished – and bask in the sun, the warmth of spring and his father's caresses. The half-delirium through which he floated was easy and yielding. Though he could see little, he came upon an unexpected – and welcoming – sight whichever direction he took. It was pleasant, to empty his racing thoughts and take uncalculating steps forward, and come upon small images of what he had long forgotten. It was almost like a game he used to play with his father long ago, where his father would find bright, secluded spots in the woods and hide small treasures for Legolas to find. When he was finished, he would disappear, and Legolas would hunt from morning to evening, excitement driving his steps forward. His father's small surprises were always – well, surprises. He could never guess what they were, for they were always wildly out of his imagination's reach.

A warmth of happiness embraced him anew as he waded through the memories. Those days were filled with sunlight and laughter. He could see himself, a small child still, running through the woods. He would search and search with what little hints his father had given, and track down the minute clues that his father had dropped along the way. Little did he know at the time how tremendously such games, so innocently enjoyed by both father and child, would shape the young elf into an intuitive, resourceful warrior.

So he would find the treasures that his father had hidden in the most unexpected places; sometimes, it would be a silver spoon in a tiny stream. Sometimes it would be a sweet honey cake – which the king had no doubt taken from the kitchens that very morning – hiding in a cave behind a waterfall. Once it had been a sight that made him gasp with delight; he had come upon a hidden clearing in the midst of the dark woods, where golden sunlight streamed in as if the small patch of green were the center of the very earth itself. And in the center of the clearing was an ancient tree, housing a family of raccoons.

But the highlight of the game, which also signified the end of it, was the greatest treasure – finding his father. The small treasures he found along the way gave hints pointing to the ultimate destination; determined to find his father before dark, Legolas would scuttle about busily, fatigue forgotten, and finally find him waiting at the end of the day-long expedition. Sometimes he would be perched upon a tree, watching him with a smile, or sometimes seated in a small secluded clearing with a halo of sunlight upon his head, looking as beautiful and golden as an ethereal creature of the ancient woods that had existed since the beginning of time. Sometimes he would be found standing on the other side of a rushing river, holding out his arms. And Legolas would pace back and forth, back and forth, and rack his brains to come up with a way to cross the river and get to his father. He learned before long that there was always the option of climbing trees to cross, or pulling fallen logs to construct a sturdy bridge. Once he had shot an arrow with a rope – the rope had been one of his father's hidden treasures for the day, which also hinted at how to reach the final destination – and when the arrow embedded itself into a tree behind his father, he had tied the other end of the rope to a tree behind himself, and walked on it across the river as his father watched on with a twinkle in his eyes. When at last he ran into his father's arms and scampered up his shoulder, the game would be over, and they would return home together under the setting sun, or sometimes, under the evening stars.

Of course, there were always unexpected occurrences. Once, his father made the mistake of hiding Legolas' pillow and blankets under a berry bush; when the child found it, he curled up with sudden fatigue and fell asleep, and did not wake until next morning in his bed, wondering when his father had brought him home.

His father's tactics became more difficult as the years wore on, and Legolas was faced with vexing puzzles and tiring exertions that left him exhausted by the time he found his smiling father. And then he would fall asleep promptly in his father's arms, too tired to climb up onto his shoulder; and his father would carry him home, into his rooms – and remain seated by the window, holding him still lest he woke, a silent shadow in the hush of evening.

Yes, his father was king – but when Legolas was still very small, the shadows had not grown to such extent that it darkened the forest of his home like a starless night. And his father would play with him often; he would sit down in a chair and read as the child snuggled to bed, and he would brush his hair and bathe him at night, or wake him up in the morning with soft, gentle kisses that made him smile with groggy eyes. His scent would always be present, enveloping him in familiar warmth that smelled of strong arms, and a gentle tenor voice.

His father had been angry at him, once. Legolas had wandered far out into the dark parts of the woods while neglecting to tell anyone, for he was too excited to explore; and it was not until much later, faced with a family of spiders, that he heard palace guards' alarm calls. When he raised a shrill distress whistle, the first arrow that embedded itself in a charging spider had been from his father's great black bow. And before he could blink, he had been scooped up onto a galloping steed, held securely in his father's arms, as dazzling flashes of blades danced in the air. And the scolding back at the palace was so severe that he had fallen asleep with tears in his eyes – and when he awoke next morning, his father had been seated next to his bed, stroking his head over and over again, ever silent.

"Gama! Do you really think a messenger will come?"

A faint voice invaded the fog, but dissipated; he was once again falling, drowning in peaceful dreams. And while he laughed and ran among the dancing sunlight of his green woods, he knew that he would never again be able to return to those days.

"Don't die, Legolas," breathed a whisper, and a dark shadow loomed over his bright memories. Legolas turned away – he was tired, and he wanted to lie in his father's arms and sleep.

Back where he lived, there was darkness, but there was also light.

But here, in the darkness where time stretched and stopped, there was no light.

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_**To Be Continued**_


	8. Coming Close

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 7:**__** Coming Close**_

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Time was against them. They were forced to travel slow, searching every step for deviances from the trail. Anxiety lined their trail during day, and fear grew in the darkness of night as they waited for their horses to recover strength.

"We are too slow," muttered Elrohir, feeding the fire. "Mirkwood is a long way yet, and we are falling behind."

Elladan, tending to the horses, glanced back. "Ada said his eyes would remain to the east," he said. "We are not alone in this."

The fire cracked and burned. Elrohir's eyes were distant as he watched.

"We have been led on a wild chase," he whispered. "We have been fooled."

A horse grunted, and kicked the ground. Elladan whispered comforting words into its ear, hushing it back to calm.

"We're going to lose him," said Elrohir suddenly. Elladan looked back in alarm. Elrohir's glazed eyes stared forlornly into the flames. "We're going to lose him like Nana…" A red autumn leaf swirled around him before falling into the golden flames. Elladan stared.

The blood had been brilliant red. Sticky, too, all over her golden hair; just as violent swirls of gold had merged as the father pulled his unseeing son, knife and all, into an embrace.

Red and gold. And Legolas could not be found. The golden child's laughter haunted their ears, intangible and ghostly.

Abandoning the horses, Elladan came to kneel by his twin. Grabbing his shoulders, he forced his brother to meet his gaze. "We will find him, Elrohir," he whispered fiercely. "We will find him."

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The king's study was unlit. Rays of gold streaked through the window unto the crimson carpet; the rest of the chamber was darkening into shadow. Thranduil stood by the window, pale eyes narrowed toward the setting sun.

The captain of the guard moved to stand behind the king. He waited.

At long last, the king stirred. "Sadron," he murmured. "If you were in a losing battle, who would you protect first?"

"You, my lord."

Silence settled in.

The sandy-haired elf stepped up to stand side by side with the king. "I remember the first meal you had with us Silvan kind," he reflected, watching the sunset. "You and your father hardly ate as you mingled with us, so busy were you memorizing our names. That day you won our trust."

The king remained as still as a statue.

"You won our respect when you became the captain of the guard," continued the sandy-haired elf. "Training us for the Battle of the Last Allegiance, you said it should be so and no other, so long as you were our leader. Do you remember?"

The king nodded imperceptibly. His eyes remained riveted on the setting sun.

"When we marched to war, your father the king rode in front, you beside him, saying all kings should show their backs to their subjects in battle. That day you won our love."

The king turned, and two pairs of eyes met. Outlined by the brilliant gold, the king's face was pale, his eyes dark, as he stood between darkness and light.

"It is in battle that loyalty is truly tested, King Thranduil." Sadron's voice was gentle. "After your father fell, we barricaded you with our bodies amidst the chaos, despite your cries demanding otherwise – because we wanted to see your back no more. We fell at strokes intended for you, because we knew that you would fight to save our brothers. That you would comfort the grieving widows, the orphaned children – that you would sing before the mourning pyre, while we wept in silence. That you would lead us home, once again bring back the hope and life which we had lost. That we would see your back once again."

The king wordlessly turned away. His eyes were alight with memory, a glassy ember in the dying of the light. "The king would seek to save his child by sending his subjects' children to war." Sadron smiled.

"And the king would be the first to ride to save his subjects' children. Your grievance is unfounded."

The king was silent. At last he breathed out. "Once more I ask you, Sadron," he said. "In a losing battle, who would you protect first?"

"You have never bidden us to act against our will, my king."

The king chuckled softly. "Wrong answer."

Sadron turned to look at the king. The king removed his gaze from the sun, and turned toward the commander. His smile was wistful.

"Your child, Sadron. Your own child." The king rested his hand upon the older elf's shoulder. "Because your king will do the same."

He turned and left the study, leaving the older elf standing in a streak of blood-red gold.

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"Sire, I beg you!"

The dark-haired healer clung to the king's cloak as he strode down the hall. "You cannot go alone! We have armies awaiting your command!"

Guards who walked the halls stopped in alarm. Maids halted in their tracks. The king glanced at the hands that clutched his cloak. "I am to choose between my child and my kingdom," he said. "I cannot do either, and yet I must do both."

"But you don't know where they are!" cried the healer. "Please wait until the morrow; send messengers, my lord, armies! Do not be swayed!"

"I know where they are." The king pulled away, and began to stride once more. Armed with his long sword and great black bow, he was dressed in the simple green and brown of the wood elves. "And I cannot wait until morning."

The king took another step forward, but the healer renewed the strength of her hold. With a sigh, he turned.

"Let me go, Ethelea." His voice was gentle. His gaze probed into frantic eyes. "Allow me to be a father for a time."

Fingers momentarily lost their tenacity, and the king slipped away. He was intercepted again at the palace doors, when his chief advisor came running and grabbed his wrist.

"You told us," he panted, accusation plain in his voice, "that we must all band together. That we must fight to protect life, and what is dear. That we are all one."

The king looked down wordlessly. The advisor straightened his back, and stared into the king's eyes.

"Had it been any other child, you would have dispatched warriors to rescue him. You would have ordered us to bring him back safely into his parents' arms."

The king looked away, and began to descend the steps down to the courtyard, where his horse stood waiting. "I cannot do that with my child." His steps faltered when the advisor yanked him back. With a sigh, he looked back at the advisor.

"You are unfair to yourself, my king," said the advisor severely. "You said yourself – before you are king, you are a Mirkwood elf. Just like the rest of us."

The courtyard was silent.

The king raised his eyes and scoured the elves who watched. Guards who lined the palace walls, guards who stood by the gates of the castle. Elves who had come running out, some clutching spinning threads, some wearing aprons whitened with dough, some holding laundry baskets, some balancing scrolls. All eyes were upon him.

"Perhaps you are right," said the king. He slid his arm free. "But all the same, I shall go alone."

The elves remained still as the king descended the steps and mounted his horse. "I was the one who started this chain. And I shall go to end it."

No more protests were made as the king turned his horse around and spurred him out of the gates – and galloped away, thinning into the crimson sun, a solitary elf who longed to be both father and king – but a father more.

And thus left the king of Mirkwood, one autumn day, amid a rain of falling leaves.

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"What is wrong, Elladan?" Elrohir pulled his reins to trot back to his twin. "What is amiss?"

His twin was still, as if listening to a distant sound. "I feel a vibration," he murmured, and looked around sharply. "Magic."

"Magic?" Elrohir looked around in surprise. "Like the enchantment of Lorien? Or magic like the dark forces?"

Elladan shook his head. "No, it's … rustic magic, the ancient sort. It smells of the earth and the trees." He narrowed his eyes. Hopeful eyes turned to Elrohir. "It smells of Greenwood. The ruler of the land is in touch with its ancient magic."

Elrohir's eyes brightened. "Legolas," he breathed. "He is near. Come, brother."

He leaped off of his horse and immediately began searching the area. Elladan dismounted slowly, frowning. This vibration was too strong to belong to Legolas. True, it was stronger in Legolas than other elves; being heir to the throne, he was blessed with the sovereignty of the magic of the land. But this vibration was different. It was faint, but only due to distance; it would be much more powerful when near. It seemed to be some ancient rune, or an enchanted prayer, that enveloped a person in its blessed protection. Though he was not yet a master of healing, Elladan had had enough experience with magic to grasp the magnitude of the strength of this ancient power. And only one person was capable of harnessing such power in these lands – but surely the king could not be out here in Mirkwood borders –

"Elladan! Get down!"

Air rushed out of his lungs; he was tackled down by Elrohir, who quickly rolled off and raised his bow. Arrows sang, and black darts countered. Elladan scrambled to his feet and joined his brother in retaliation; soon they heard scampering footsteps. Elladan threw down his bow and turned to his brother. Black darts protruded from Elrohir's arm and knee.

"Elrohir," breathed Elladan, grabbing Elrohir's shoulder as the younger twin sank to his knees. "Elrohir!"

"Sedative," murmured Elrohir. "Not poisonous."

Elladan inspected the darts. Elrohir gritted his teeth as his twin yanked them out.

"We must find shelter," said Elladan, gathering Elrohir into his arms. Elrohir moaned.

"Elladan, no." Weak hands clutched at a sleeve. "It is a human dart. We are close."

"We are injured and outnumbered," said Elladan emphatically, looking around for trees. "They also have a captive. Like this, we'll make captives of ourselves too."

"But they know that we are here," Elrohir insisted with desperation. "Legolas will be in danger. We have no time."

Elladan bit his lip. His twin was right; Legolas was more vulnerable than ever now. But all the same…

"As soon as you can move, we will set out after Legolas. I promise." Elladan began to climb a nearby tree, choosing a sturdy branch to lean against. "Rest, Elrohir. I will concoct an antidote."

Night was falling. Holding his brother tightly in his arms, Elladan watched him fall into unconsciousness.

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Bright fire cackled, masking the sound of rain.

"So, young elf," said Gama conversationally, skinning a rabbit by the fire, "will your king kill me if he gets his chance?"

"No," muttered the elf, eyes upon the ceiling, "not unless you hurt me."

"Really?" Gama chuckled. "What if I hurt your king?"

"Then I will kill you."

Gama stared at the adolescent youth who lay bound to the table, staring distantly at the ceiling.

"I thought you were a healer, Master Elf."

"Killing can be a form of healing."

Gama made as if to answer, but turned his head as the door slammed, and feet scuffled in. "What is it, Rolof?" he called gruffly. "Don't come in here shaking out all the rain."

Rolof trudged in, his cloak heavy and dripping. "So dark outside," he muttered. "There is going to be a storm." He approached the fire and held out his hands. "We have a pair of elves on our tail."

Gama's eyes shot upward. Rolof looked smug. "I shot one of them down, and they stopped following."

"But you didn't finish them off," snapped Gama. Rolof growled.

"You try fighting against a pair of elves."

"Never mind. What did they look like?"

Rolof shrugged. "They looked alike."

"All elves look alike to you, old man."

"Oh, shut it," growled Rolof.

The two men did not notice the widened blue eyes that darted in their direction.

Legolas' heart burned. The twins. One of them had been shot.

He needed to be out of here, see if the twins were hurt. He was a magnet for pain, grief, hate. If only he could escape –

"I told you this plan was ridiculous," said Rolof. "Soon they will have an army of elves at our necks. Let's just take this one and run."

"You can run," snapped Gama, "but you are not taking him. I am not going to flee; my conscience is clear."

"Do you not see where your justice is leading you?"

Both heads turned to find desperate blue eyes.

"This will only lead to more deaths, more blood, more anger – there will be no end."

"Begging for your life now, young elf?" Gama rose to his feet, a humorless smirk twisting at the corner of his mouth. "You held out for some time."

"You cannot regain what you have lost." Blue eyes were hard. "And you will have blood on your hands, and you'll be no better than the people you hate."

Gama's fist flew up into the air.

"Gama, no!"

Before he could make impact, Rolof was pulling him back. "No, Gama! Do not hurt the child!"

"I'll kill you!" Gama pushed Rolof away. "Both of you! You for your father's sins, and you for your king's!"

Rolof backed away. "You've gone mad," he said shakily. Gama was about to respond, when a heavy knock came from the door. They stilled.

The knock came again. The roar of thunder and rush of rain filled the silence.

Timidly, Rolof went past the table and ducked into the stone corridor. Gama stood still, eyes bloodshot, chest heaving.

Clutching a drugged dart hidden in his pocket, Rolof opened the wooden door to find a tall cloaked shadow standing before him. Rolof sucked in his breath. "This fortress is full," he said gruffly. "Go somewhere else."

The shadow remained unmoving. A flash of lightening streaked across the sky, whitening everything in sight. Rolof felt cold sweat upon his skin; he wondered if it was about good time to abandon Gama and his crazy plans once and for all.

The shadow spoke. The voice was low and quiet, and yet a steely resonance rang in the gliding tenor.

"I come to seek a child."

Rolof stiffened. "Are you sent from the elf-king?" Backing away, he tightened his grip around the dart in his pocket. "How did you find this place? Are you alone?"

The shadow stepped in without warning. Rolof stumbled backward, and drew a dagger. "Stay back!"

"Rolof? What is it?" Gama called out from the main chamber.

The figure turned its head toward the voice, and began to move in that direction. Trembling, Rolof blocked the way, brandishing his dagger. "A-a-answer me," he spewed. "Are you from the king? We asked for more than one. Why is there only one?"

The shadow looked down coolly upon the shaking man. Rolof nearly jumped out of his skin when the figure reached up with a hand, and pulled back his wet hood. Rolof's eyes widened, his breath hitching as rivulets of golden hair tumbled down broad shoulders.

"I thought you may be interested in settling things with me instead," he said, and Rolof was staring into the iciest blue eyes he had ever seen. Glittering sharply on the face of the most gloriously beautiful creature he had ever beheld, they seemed to pierce into the very depths of his soul. "I am Legolas' father."

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_**To Be Continued**_


	9. Invisible Chains

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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,

_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 8: Invisible Chains**_

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Rolof was disconcerted.

This was not how things were to unfold. His plan had been to take the adolescent elf and run while Gama went out to meet the elven messenger tomorrow at the ruins. Not only did this elf find the fortress and show up before he could carry out his plan, but he was also on his feet. Far from being knocked out from the sedatives, he stood perfectly poised, pinning him down with a crushing gaze as if the iron bars between them did not exist. It did not help that he was a deadly beauty either.

The creature overwhelmed him with his sheer presence. Pale blue eyes, glassy and piercing, bore through him undaunted; platinum blond hair glimmered faintly in the dark of the stone walls. Though he did resemble the child in some ways – the child would no doubt grow into the mold of this beauty – whereas the child was soft satin, this elf was chiseled steel. Though light of foot and lean of frame, there was a magnetic weight upon his step, a radiant aura of power.

He jumped when the fair elf suddenly spoke.

"You are just like him."

Cold eyes were focused upon him. Rolof stepped back.

"I see that man in your face...and your eyes." Frigid blue burned into his soul. "He had beheld my son with the same lust in his eyes."

Rolof flushed, but with shame or rage, he could not ascertain. "You may wish to know then," he said, sounding ridiculous to his own ears, "that I use the same sedatives that he had used on Legolas."

The elf seemed thoughtful. "So we are back to where we started," he murmured. Rolof shuddered as the elf lowered his head, fixed his gaze through long downcast lashes. It was terrifying, this crushing gaze, and yet maddeningly alluring. "My child is once again caught in the hands of men," said the elf. "I recognize you, son of Roloth, as you recognized my son, whom your father had captured in portrait years ago – and now," he said, eyes flickering toward the young man walking in, "he will recognize me."

Rolof turned to Gama, who froze in his tracks.

"Legolas' father, you say?" Gama's voice was hoarse. "Alas, it seems we were bound by an invisible chain of fate before we even met." He walked past Rolof and stood before the elf. "How will it end, I wonder?" he smiled bitterly.

The elf regarded him with a bland expression. "We were all linked regardless of our wishes, son of Dama, but you can cut that link today."

Gama laughed. "Cut the link – and then what? Where would I be left to go? Where would my grief be left to roam?"

His righteousness seemed to deflate when the elf's steely countenance took on an added weight, a towering calm. "Know that though I did order the burning of the village, our people partook in no killings." His voice rang majestically. "It was your own father and his people who set about slaying each other."

Gama bit his lip. Rolof stared. "You mean...you...he's...he...the..."

"Yes, Rolof," snapped Gama, "this is the elf-king. We have a prince in our hands." He measured the elf up and down. "You still have everything," he spat, "I cannot stand it! I will not forgive it! Even if you grovel at my feet!"

The elf stared. "Is that what you want?" he said. "For me to grovel at your feet?"

Gama's face contorted. "Is that what you came to do, o king of elves?"

The elf's voice softened. "I came to take my child home."

The fury suddenly drained from Gama. He studied the elf coolly. "Take him home," he repeated. He turned on his heels, and walked out of the chamber. "Very well, then. You shall take him home."

Silence settled in, broken only by heavy rain pouding against stone. The night was damp and chill.

Rolof shivered. He found himself thinking of the fire in the other chamber, and the elf-child. _I suppose I am my father's son_, he mused. _Can't stop drooling over a child._

Well, the elf was no longer the tender child he had been in Roloth's time – but neither was Rolof the disheveled adolescent who had fled from his father's cottage. When he heard that his father was included in the latest batch of exiles, he had breathed a sigh of relief; he only began to live again after his father supposedly left.

Or that was what he had thought.

It was by accident that he realized that he was cursed with his father's gifted hand, his father's artistic eye. And from there began the battle; he clung to hope back then, that his malady could be cured. But faced with the only breadwinning skill he had, the innocent compliance, the tenderness of flesh, the soft curves that held many promises – his veins sang with fire, and he knew he was doomed.

And so his young life had been spent in battle, and as the years wore on, his battles began to wane. Surrender not only eased the burden but also promised pleasure. And what pleasure it was, the promise he saw on a singed parchment when he came across that deserted ruin of a settlement; he knew the story as soon as he saw a lovely elf-child sketched in his father's hand. And he had a vengeful band of exiles' sons at his disposal; a shortened version of the story was all it took for them to hunt down his prey for him.

It was an excellent plan. Never did he foresee how the vengeance he had used would turn against him. He was an artist; it was not justice but beauty he admired, worshipped, desired – his father's death and Gama's rage were a thing of the past, as was that day his father had thrust him onto that creaky bed. One could only rise and walk on.

But the elf was confusing things.

This frighteningly beautiful creature of power stood before him, calling himself father. He had sacrificed neither kingdom nor child – and yet he came alone and unarmed in the dead of the night, offering himself as a live sacrifice. Fatherly love – was this it? He did not understand.

A father was a distant man, a hungry man. Watching, touching – sweet words, rough hands. _Because I love you most_, he had said. _I love you more than any other child, and I will show you._

But afterwards, crouched alone in a damp bed, Rolof did not feel loved.

It did not matter. Rolof shrugged to himself. If he could not understand, he could only rise and walk on. And make the best of the opportunities.

"So, elf-king," he said, scanning the elf, "how far would you go for your child?"

The elf watched with dispassion. Rolof licked his lips. "Gama is in the other chamber with your son," he said. "He is planning to make your child pay."

To his disappointment, the elf's face remained unreadable. Rolof fingered his dart. "I can persuade him to do otherwise," he continued, "if you give me what I want."

The elf gazed long at him. At length, he wordlessly stepped away from the bars, leaving ample space by the locked door.

Rolof smiled. "Good boy."

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Legolas opened his eyes. Gama was untying his wrists. "Get up if you can, little elf," he muttered, as he released the cloth.

Blinking in confusion, Legolas pulled his arms. His movements were sluggish; his body was numb, and he could not pull himself upright. As he tried, the world spun, and he fell back heavily.

"Helpless," said Gama. "But conscious enough to suffer."

"What do you seek of me?" Legolas steadied his breath.

Gama appeared in his sightline, holding a small knife that he had been using to skin animals. The blade was aglow with heat from the fire.

"It will begin soon, little elf. Don't you worry."

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Whatever fatherly love was, it was too good to be true.

Rolof neared the cell, rusted keys jingling in his hand. The elf was watching him evenly. The cell was too small for one to stretch out in, but that would hardly be necessary. His lips curled with anticipation.

Before he reached the cell, he stopped.

What if it _was_ too good to be true?

The elf was unarmed, he knew that. After sedating him, Rolof had run his hands underneath the cloak for weapons, and found none. He had attributed it to foolishness, or humility. But what if it was a sign of confidence?

Rolof eyed the elf with suspicion. Getting inside the cell suddenly seemed a dangerous idea. The extent of the elf's strength was yet to be tested, but of strength he had no doubt. The elf could strike him, take the keys, and escape – if he did not kill him at the spot. Shuddering, Rolof stepped back. He would need a backup plan.

Swiftly he drew his dart, and threw it aiming at the elf's neck. The elf's hand moved in an invisible flash.

Rolof's breath hitched. The elf had caught the dart midair without so much as a blink. Then, with dart in hand, he turned piercing eyes toward the man.

With a panicked cry, Rolof stumbled out of the chamber.

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The fortress was old, made of stone and clay. It was more a shelter than a fortress, as the short corridor opened to only two chambers; one was the main chamber where Legolas lay on the stone slab. The ground was uncoated, and a sharp chill radiated from the dirt floor. The fury of the thunderstorm outside could be heard through the cracks that climbed the walls. .

The other chamber was smaller, half encased in rusty iron bars. Behind them stood Thranduil, dizzy still from the sedative. But enough waiting; it seemed that his vision would refuse to clear for a long time. Dropping the dart onto the floor, he stepped on it, and gripped an iron bar in each hand. With a deep breath, he began to pull the bars apart.

Red rust bit into his skin, sandy iron jagged against his grip. But Thranduil continued to pull, body taut and still, veins on his forearms protruding with exertion.

_Valar, give me strength..._

And slowly, slowly – the rusted bars began to bend.

He could use other means. They had missed a hidden dagger on his body. The stone walls were loose, and the mud was crumbling; with a bit of picking, he could easily dig out a sizeable chunk of stone and ram it against the rusty bars. But Thranduil had not the patience to crouch on the floor and dig out rocks.

_Legolas…._

His eyes burned.

With a crack, one of the rusted bars snapped under his fingers, and crimson blood spurted. He violently parted the broken bar with both of his hands, and made enough room to squeeze through. Swiftly passing the broken threshold, he hastened into the corridor.

Gama was bent over the child when he looked up. "Rolof!" he screamed.

Before Thranduil could close the distance between then, Gama was brandishing a dagger over a golden head on the stone slab. Thranduil halted. A limp white hand hung down the table.

"Come here," ordered Gama.

Thranduil slowly entered the threshold, eyes fixed on his son. Legolas' eyes were closed, but as Thranduil passed by, they flew open.

"Ada."

Thranduil backed into a wall as ordered. Gazes locked, and he held his breath. And then, Legolas let out a smile, mingled with tears.

"You should not have come," he whispered.

"Rolof," called Gama, "subdue him again. Can you never do anything right?"

The older man appeared from his hiding in the corridor, and Thranduil obediently sank to his knees as the man forced him to raise his arms above his head. "Ada, no," breathed his child. But the words were lost.

Dull pain hit his chest, and the world ceased to spin. Instead, only blackness – pierced by glimmering eyes, trembling with tears.

_Legolas..._

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_**To Be Continued**_


	10. In the Throes of Love and Hate

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 9: In the Throes of Love and Hate **_

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Elladan pulled Elrohir close, resting his chin atop his brother's head. But try as he might, he could not shield his brother from the merciless rain.

The storm roared with vehement fury, brightening the world in blinding blue. It was just like those storms in Imladris, when he and Elrohir would run to their parents' rooms in fear. And there they would cuddle between their parents, safe and unafraid – until their mother was gone from this world. And then, everything changed.

Their visits ceased, despite their fear; greater was the fear of facing the silence of his father's room, the hush of his empty bed. It would be Glorfindel who came to their rescue, seating them on his lap before a great fire, telling tale after breathtaking tale, warming the night away into the pale hush of dawn. And when they grew old enough, they would similarly seek out Legolas in his guest room, wide-eyed and alone, and take him to their bed, tuck him into the sheets between them. And eventually, Arwen would learn to come to them as well, preferring to sleep between two, or sometimes three, brothers rather than a solitary father. And as they giggled under the sheets, told each other tales, the storms would lose some of their terror.

Arwen had wept when she heard of the path of slaughter that trailed Legolas' steps.

Lightning clapped, and it was as bright and terrible as it had been before they had learned to go to Glorfindel. Elrohir moaned in his fevered sleep. Elladan pulled him closer.

He needed to go to Legolas, before they could hurt him. But he could not leave Elrohir. What to do?

Elladan bit his lip. He knew this feeling, helplessness – he had experienced it too many times to count. Nana. Ada, who almost faded after Nana had set sail. And little Leaf.

He would not lose another loved one. Never again.

Blinking rainwater from his eyes, he gently grasped Elrohir's arm, and began to chant. A low, soothing chant – fervent with wishes, enmeshed with every fiber of healing magic that he possessed.

Hating orcs was easy. To blame them, kill them, for the warriors that he and Elrohir had become, their father's sorrowful smile, their sister's lingering silence. But who could they hate this time?

Elrohir's skin began to glow under his touch. Soft light spread and enveloped the younger twin, encasing him in a protective veil.

Who would answer to Arwen's tears? Who would wipe the blood from Legolas' knives? Who would be punished for Thranduil's wordless anguish?

And who would replace the sorrow, the pain, the hate? Who would heal them all, bring back all that had been lost?

The light completely wrapped around the twin, and then Elrohir's form vanished from the tree. Placing a kiss upon his twin's invisible brow, Elladan rose to his feet.

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Thranduil woke to a hot breath on his neck.

Realizing that he was on his knees with wrists in chains, his gaze swept the chamber, and pinned down his child not five strides away. Legolas' head was turned, watching him, and flickered as Thranduil's gaze cleared. "Ada," he whispered. The young man looked up from the fire.

With a surge of ferocity, Thranduil pulled on the chains around his wrists. Blood spurted bright, and Rolof flinched away. But the chains were embedded into the wall; they did not budge.

Gama barked out a laugh. "How touching." He ran a hand through blond hair hanging from the table. "A reunion between father and son."

"Why such ill-founded hate for the child?" snarled Thranduil, tugging viciously at the chains once more. A steady pump of blood began to run.

Gama raised a red-hot knife. "I never got to experience such a reunion." The blade pressed into the young elf's arm. Thranduil cried out. Legolas shut his eyes.

"Release the child!" More creaking and grinding could be heard from the rusty chains. Legolas held his breath; he had never heard his father so desperate with panic. "It is I that you want; take your revenge upon me! Release the child!"

Legolas bit down a hiss of pain.

_Say no such things, Ada,_ he whispered silently. _Say no such things._

He had his share of battles. He feared no pain, no torture, no cage. His world was strong, his home held proud, and his father always stood before him, his broad back protective, his strong voice ever calm. And not five strides away, bound and on his knees, his father – his tall, proud, strong father – was breaking. And with him broke Legolas' world.

"You can thrash, elf-king," said the man, turning the blade and slashing across fair skin. "But you cannot save your child. You suffer the price of justice."

"I pity you."

Gama's breath stopped. He stared at the young elf beneath his blade. Clear blue eyes bore into his. "You, who knows no path than hate and revenge – you shall be ever tormented by your past, haunted by your sins. I pity you, child of Man."

Gama stepped back, as if burned.

"Hurt me, if it eases your suffering. Kill me, if it brings you joy. But you cannot tear us asunder, my father and I, and it will only add to your misery." Melodic voice glided like steel. "Your thirst for blood may be quenched, but your jealousy and resentment will grow with each torment you inflict, for my father and I will ever sacrifice for each other. Why subject yourself to this display?"

Gama stared hard. There was silence; the king had stopped moving, watching intently. Gama stepped away further. "Rolof," he ground out.

Rolof quickly climbed onto the table and straddled the adolescent elf with glee. Father and son looked into one another, and Thranduil paled. Legolas bit his lip. As hands began to roam, a trembling sheen thickened in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Ada," he whispered, voiceless. "I'm sorry."

Now he remembered. His father had held him tight, burying his face in his hair, as he had rocked him back and forth, back and forth.

_I love you, my little Greenleaf. I love you._

And holding the wide-eyed elfling close, the king had wept.

_I never wished to make you cry, Ada._

A crystalline trail traced his face, and seeped woefully into cold stone.

_I never wished to hurt you thus._

His father remained frozen as his son continued to watch him, heedless of the hand that stroked his face. "Ai, Little Greenleaf," he breathed at last, a trembling sigh. His eyes shimmered with a shaky smile. "It was not your fault."

The man began to unlace the youth's tunic. Eyes ablaze, Thranduil tugged again with renewed ferocity.

Legolas struggled convulsively, only to be subdued by the man's weight. His limbs were weak, and his vision swam – days of sedative after sedative had made him completely helpless. His mind was dizzy, aflame with red heat. There was no escape; every move was easily subdued, and he was so tired. And the man – he was touching him like Roloth, and he was once again falling, falling into that abyss of confusion and helplessness – and somewhere far away, his father's voice, that melodic voice that ever sang gentle songs, was torn with anguish.

_Do not look, Ada,_ he whispered silently, as he allowed himself to drift into soothing blackness.

The heart-wrenching scream of the elvenking rang against the night sky, as heated flames danced away.

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Elrohir woke to the scream of winds. The tree beneath him groaned, whipped by gusts carrying scents of blood and rage.

He moved, and started when his elbow broke through a translucent sheen of magic. He rose in alarm, only to sway as lightning struck a nearby tree, illuminating the empty branches around him.

Elladan was gone.

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_**To Be Continued**_

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	11. Each One for Whom He Loveth

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

People! Say hi and let me know you're alive! I miss you all!

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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,

_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 10: Each One for Whom He Loveth**_

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The heat was maddening.

Heartbeats thundered against his ribs; the fire danced, the world spun, and in the center of it all lay his child, his golden sunshine. Thranduil's knees slid against the ground as he lurched and pulled, unaware of tearing skin and spurting blood. The chains jerked and slid, slinking and grinding against stone. Specks of dirt flew up as Thranduil's knees dug deeper and deeper into the ground.

Gama stared, wondering if the elf would keep on until his wrists became detached. But he did not have long to wonder.

With a vicious pull, the elf heaved forward, and there was a tremor in the air. Gama's eyes caught the crack that shot up higher in the wall, steadily climbing upward. Rolof dove down to kiss the young elf's abdomen; the tremor came again, louder, with a moaning rumble. The crack was spreading through the stone walls.

"Rolof!" shouted Gama. Rolof looked up, and Gama lunged toward Thranduil. But the elf paid no heed; as the man swung his knife, the elf gave a terrible, ragged cry, and heaved forward; a great crash broke through the air as the chains burst from the wall link by link, shattering and spewing chunks and powders of dust and stone, and cracks in the walls climbed higher, higher, the entire portion of the wall beginning to crumble down, and as the human's knife came down, in a time-stopping blur of gold and red, the elf leaped forward – and Rolof was hurled from the table, into the roaring fire.

The human howled, leaped out of the flames, and ran out of the fortress, into the rain. Poised with his back against the child, chest heaving in a mess of red and gold, the elf fixed his savage gaze upon Gama.

Gama shakily clutched his knife. He threw himself breathlessly forward.

Thranduil moved in sync with the human. The young man was pinned against the stone slab, his arm twisted behind his back. "I should have killed them all," snarled the elf, raising his hand. "I should have killed you all."

A feeble hand clutched his arm.

"Ada."

Swiftly he kicked the human away, and turned to the youth on the table. The human crashed into the wall, and the lower wall gave way, and rain pelted in through the hole that continued to crack higher and higher.

Legolas' tremulous eyes glimmered up toward his father. "Don't say that, Ada," he breathed, "don't say things like that…"

The storm raged into the groaning fortress, and the howling night drowned the thundering screams of his soul; and in the heart of this darkness, as the grounds broke beneath his feet, his tumbling world was together at last, and Thranduil bowed his head.

"Legolas."

Raging eyes thickened with a glassy sheen. Tentative hands reached forth, hovering over his child's face, and Legolas slowly reached out a feeble hand, and brushed his father's face with weak fingers.

"Don't cry, Ada."

Thranduil closed his eyes, clutching that savior of a hand, a hot whisper broken over limp skin – and around them, the light of the flames danced, cracking with the rumbling of a breaking fortress.

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Gama ran straight into a tall slender shadow. He could not see, but he heard a young voice.

"You."

Recognition surfaced in young gray eyes. Gama sucked in his breath. One of the young lords of Rivendell.

Understanding was swift. The elf glanced at the fortress behind Gama, eyes narrowing upon the sight visible through the broken wall. Gama seized his chance.

With grim satisfaction, he moved away from the surprised elf. "Blame your fellow elves," he said before ducking away.

Feeling strangely numb, Elladan looked down, frowning upon the dark smear of red spreading against his side. He smiled wryly. He had been hasty; he was already exhausted from the magic he had used on Elrohir. But no matter...

With languid slowness, he pulled out an arrow, and shot it into the dark. With a satisfying thump, a shadow faltered. Elladan turned toward the fortress and hastened inside, stumbling at the crumbling threshold as debris of stone rained upon his head. Thranduil looked up, eyes widening at the sight of a wounded son of Elrond. Legolas turned and gasped.

Elladan leaned on the broken wall, as if feeling the tremor of the fortress with every fiber of his being. His eyes scanned Legolas, and then Thranduil – and then, he smiled.

"You are safe." He wearily swayed – and sank to the floor.

"Elladan!" Legolas' scream was swallowed by the roar of the storm.

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Elrohir panted, wishing his sight would clear. The drug was waning, but his eyes could not yet match his desperate feet. Grabbing a tree branch as his feet slid against sodden mud, he heaved himself up. He had no time; the rain was fast washing away his brother's trail.

The ground lurched. He blindly reached as his feet slid again. His body was slow to reclaim its sense of balance; he cursed as his hand swung wildly in the air, catching nothing. With a stumble, he fell, barely catching himself on his hands and knees.

For a while he stayed, panting. Then, with a grunt, he pulled himself back up to his feet, swayed, and landed on top of a bush. With a huff of frustration, he disentangled himself from the bush and shakily stood, his hands curling around something cool and metallic. Frowning, he pulled out a sword from the shrub: it was long, with stones of glittering green and white embedded in the scabbard. Elrohir held his breath, and swiftly groped around under the shrub. His hands pulled out everything they had found – a long knife, laced with etchings of gold, and a great black hunting bow. He gave no thought to the tightly-sealed ewer before him, and stared at the gold-inlaid quiver that held a pack of arrows. Mirkwood arrows.

Elrohir let out a tremulous breath. Putting the items back into their hiding, he rose and ran. The king of Mirkwood was here. And yet – something was terribly wrong.

Stumbling through the woods under the pelting rain, Elrohir prayed that he had not lost another beloved one.

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Legolas's breath hitched as Thranduil ripped open Elladan's tunic, swiftly binding the deep wound. Blood continued to seep through the fabric, merging into a river of blood upon the floor; heavy chains shifted and clunked every time Thranduil moved, digging into bloody wrists and adding to the running river of red. As Thranduil moved to shield the younger elves from the rain, Legolas held the unconscious elf close, whispering under his breath, summoning the healing magic he had vowed never to use again.

"Elladan, Elladan," he whispered, desperation shaking his voice. "Come back to the light, brother, come back. Return to me. Elladan," he choked, gripping the older elf, "do not leave me!"

Thranduil looked up in alarm. "Legolas, we must-"

The ground shook; like a streak of lightning, the hole in the wall split up to the ceiling with an angry crack. The fortress began to cave in with a shuddering sigh.

And with a violent roar, it collapsed.

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The fortress was a site of ruin. Elrohir circled it desperately, searching for a way in.

"Elladan!" His voice was feeble against the angry roar of the sky. "Legolas! King Thranduil!" He found a puddle of blood, trailing into the rubble. "Are you here?" A deep, gut-wrenching terror began to shake his hands. "Elladan!" he cried again. "Elladan!"

And then, a small crack. Dark eyes shot forward. A tiny rock rolled down from atop the center of the debris. Hastily Elrohir neared the center, and leaned close. "Is somebody there?" he called again, hope and despair tearing his voice.

A moan. And then, a whisper. "Elrohir?"

The young elf clamped his hand over his mouth, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. "Aye," he choked.

The voice was silent for a while, and then it came again, even softer.

"Legolas is here with me. Elladan should be out there."

Elrohir jumped to his feet, and looked around frantically. He once again circled the area, and this time found an arm protruding from a dusty bush that stood near the rubble. Hastily he cut the shrubbery aside, and revealed the pale face of his brother.

"Is he well?" inquired the tired voice. "I threw him out without looking."

Elrohir swallowed hard, feeling his brother's steady pulse. Blood lined his body, but its flow had been staunched with immediate healing.

"Yes," he whispered. "He is well."

No answer.

Fear once again rose to his throat; Elrohir hurried back to the rubble, and began to frantically pull on an enormous block of stone. "King Thranduil!"

"Do not waste your strength, Elrohir," said the tired voice. "Go and get help."

"But-" Precariously balanced on shards of rock, Elrohir tugged again. The broken slab of stone did not budge. He panted, fever rushing up to his head, as the world whirred around him.

"Get help, Elrohir." For the first time, Elrohir recognized a hidden edge of pain underneath. "I cannot hold out much longer."

Swallowing hard, Elrohir backed away from the rubble. "I will be back!" he cried, and whirled around. The world lurched around him, but he did not notice. He slipped and fell, and fell again, and ran into trees and ravines, his desperate calls echoing through the woods as the storm died away.

The black of the night was giving way to dark blue, and in the wake of the waning rain, a thick fog began to settle in. And hidden in the fog, there was a tremor – a distant rumble of hoof beats. Elrohir slowed to a halt as his heart began to pound erratically.

"Elrohir?" called out a familiar voice. Elrohir choked back a sob.

"Ada!"

He collapsed onto his knees as shadows approached against the indigo sky: his father galloping toward him on horseback. Flanking him, along with a dozen of Rivendell warriors, was keen-eyed Erestor. Elrohir was in no state to wonder at the advisor's presence; he struggled to his feet, and began to stumble back toward the site of ruin. "Hurry!" he cried, when a strong arm circled his ribs.

"Get on my horse," commanded the deep voice of his father, and he was scooped onto the saddle. Seating his child before him, Elrond spurred the entourage on.

Their progress slowed more and more, blocked by the rolling fog. And then, they stopped altogether. Elrohir turned to protest, and then fell silent.

In the eerie stillness, they were surrounded by arrows, barely visible through the fog. Elrohir realized his shouts could be heard all over the forest.

"Not an inch, orcs," hissed a voice from the thickening fog.

"We are not orcs," called Elrohir, hope rekindled. "We are elves! We are your kindred!"

"So they always say." Black shafts rose; spearheads loomed ominously in the dark blue horizon. "We are murderous, and have no time for this. Rest, and be out of our way."

Warriors around Elrond gripped their weapons. With horror, Elrohir realized that spoken entreaties had no power in these lands without sight; Mirkwood orcs imitated the voices they heard.

"Ada, no," he whispered desperately. Elrond stared into the mist. Arrows pointed frankly down; elves of Rivendell nocked their own bows. "My Silvan kinsmen, can you not see us?" Elrohir cried.

A blood-hurdling screech resounded in the fog.

All turned to the direction of the cry. It was followed by another scream, venomous with rage and terror.

Elrohir felt faint. The screams came from the site of ruin.

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_**To Be Continued**_

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**_,_**


	12. In the Trembling Hush

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

I love reviews, criticism, Hi's. Just letting you know.

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 11: In the Trembling Hush**_

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Arrows shifted, and elves looked at one another as murmurs spread. Elrohir suddenly raised a shrill whistle.

Murmurs ceased. Elves of Rivendell stared at Elrohir as he repeatedly raised the call, the staccato code of the Mirkwood guard he had learned during his patrols with them.

Arrows were withdrawn, spears lowered. "Forgive us," came a voice from the mist, as elves, one by one, revealed themselves from the fog. Elrohir recognized the sandy-haired captain of the guard at the lead. "Well met Elrohir, son of Elrond." His eyes glittered with restlessness.

"Formalities later," said Elrond briskly, moving his entourage forward, as Mirkwood guards fell into a protective fan about them. "Are those orcs we hear?" Screams continued to tear through the shrouded air.

"Aye." The captain looked grim. "An abandoned shelter lies there, and orcs sometimes go to – what is wong, Elrohir?"

"Elladan," breathed Elrohir, "Elladan lies unprotected there!" He clutched the horse's mane. "We must hurry!"

"Run fast," murmured Elrond, tightening his grip upon the reins. "Run fast."

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They found Glorfindel standing alone, gazing at the center of the rubble. His sword was embedded in an orc that lay not an armspan from Elladan. The area was littered with orc bodies.

"They are in there," he said, pointing at the rubble. "Elrond, see to Elladan. The rest of you, dig. Well met, brothers of Mirkwood." He rolled up his sleeves, joining the rest of the elves in hauling and lifting.

And thus they lifted the debris, block by block and piece by piece, lord and advisor and warrior included, even half-delirious Elrohir – and they were joined by more and more Mirkwood elves, those that have followed the search party that had gone after the king – and together they finally lifted away a slab of stone to reveal the dust-covered heads of those entombed within.

Thranduil slowly raised his eyes. Bloodied stone hid his body beneath, but clasped in arms dappled with white dust and red blood, the child remained untouched.

Light blue eyes met grim gray, and the king smiled weakly. Elrond's answering smile shook with terror and relief. Thranduil turned his eyes toward Elrohir.

"Well done, young one," he whispered – and slowly, gently, slumped.

With a cry, elves dug anew, lifting away debris by debris. And yet even in delirium, among shouts and lifting and hauling, the father's arms remained clasped in an iron grip around the child that snuggled as if in peaceful sleep – and thus they remained, sleeping father child, in the hushed whisper of the silver dawn.

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The fog hung heavy, and an eerie calm hovered over the memory of the violent storm of the night before. Elves were setting camp, and yet their steps were halting, their voices hushed, as they milled about the clearing that had once held a broken fortress.

Erestor glided into a tent, saw it empty, and spun to exit as he collided into a hard body.

"Looking for me, dear councilor?" Glorfindel gave a roguish smile. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

Erestor's gaze cut into mirthless eyes. "Where is the young human you brought back with you?"

"In Captain Sadron's tent." He quickly seized the advisor's arm. "Hold, friend, the captain has already questioned him. He sleeps now; Elladan's arrow nearly pierced his heart."

"Would that it had," muttered Erestor. Glorfindel smiled ruefully.

"Come, dear councilor, grace my humble tent with your company." He steered the slender elf back into the tent. "Mirkwood elves are searching for the other man as we speak."

Erestor allowed Glorfindel to lead him to a chair, and draped himself over the backrest. Diplomacy had fallen upon his shoulders with the elvenlord occupied, and it was no easy feat in these wild terrains, what with kings, princes and heirs being drugged, injured, lost and found – and both realms hunting for humans at large.

Glorfindel sank unto his modest cot facing Erestor. "Elrond is doing it again," he said. "Trying to re-seal what had been released."

Erestor fell into thought. "Do you think…" he breathed deeply. "Do you think he can do it again? He said there is the danger of mind rupture… and it gets more difficult with age."

Glorfindel watched Erestor wrap his arms around the chair. "It depends on how much the child is willing."

Erestor smiled ruefully. "I suppose that is our best hope. And the others are recovering, I wager?"

"Elladan is stable; one of Thranduil's healers is tending to him. Elrohir is recovering by his side."

Erestor frowned as his friend hesitated. "What of Thranduil?" He scrutinized the taller elf. "Has his bleeding gone on?"

"He…" Glorfindel lowered his eyes, seeing something beyond this world. His breath unfurled in the whisper of an age-old sorrow. "He does not wake."

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After politely turning the panicking Mirkwood healers out of the healing tent, the elvenlord sent for the balrog slayer.

"I need you," he said, as soon as Glorfindel entered the tent. Glorfindel stopped in his tracks.

"I know your love for me, Elrond, but I really don't think Artanis would appreciate -"

"No, you scoundrel," scowled Elrond, striding to Glorfindel, "I need you to help me. Come over here."

"To do what the mightiest healers of Greenwood and Imladris could not?" Glorfindel cast a doubtful glance toward the beds. He nonetheless moved forward. Elrond waved an impatient hand.

"I have not the gift you possess, the voice of the Undying Lands."

"Is that all it takes?" Glorfindel studied Legolas' face carefully. "Surely your healing magic is much more powerful than mine."

"It is not that. Legolas I can handle. But Thranduil..." Elrond's face contorted. "He is lost to me."

Glorfindel's gaze shifted from son to father. Then he glanced outside, where healers of Mirkwood paced, anxious and ready at a moment's call. Elrond smiled ruefully.

"Mirkwood healers have lived in their king's footsteps, and they understand – but they have not the power." He frowned in thought. "I have the power, aye, but I do not entirely understand. But you, Glorfindel," he pinned the golden elf with a dark gaze, "you have been there; you understand. And I believe – you have what he needs."

"Do I?" murmured Glorfindel, staring down at the elvenking.

Elrond watched with flickering hope. Glorfindel stood unmoving, and dread grew with each moment of silence. Being a great healer entailed learning to recognize one's limits. When hours of delving had failed to unlock the king's darkened heart, he had snapped to his feet, called for someone who was not a healer. Something had to be done, and he was not the one to do it; in his frantic search to do something, anything, he had sent for Lord Glorfindel in a last gambling hope.

And standing before that tumbling mess of yellow hair, Glorfindel understood. Hailed as the mightiest warrior of the land, the most vivacious spirit of the woods, the greatest king of all time – Thranduil was fragile, precisely because of it. Without those glittering eyes and roguish smile, the stilled king was as a frosted flower, splendid and brittle.

Glorfindel sank down next to the king, and turned to see Elrond looking lost.

"I had not counted on this." Elrond chewed on his lip. "One would expect Thranduil to jump out of bed any moment and threaten to chop off my head if I didn't fix up his child – and yet – ai, Glorfindel," he breathed, "I know not how to heal this."

Glorfindel gazed upon the lord of Imladris, the ages of wisdom and sorrow etched onto his grave face. For all his wisdom and days of sorrow, Elrond would be powerless. He had never treaded his own knife-hot tears; had never smiled unaware that this spirit was no longer one with the weary heart that could take no more and had fallen crumbling behind. He had given into raging grief, had begun to swoon and fade, after Celebrian had sailed; he had risen after days and nights of fevered dreams and Glorfindel's threats, determined to return to his children. He had willingly entered, and returned from, that place of dark despair. No, he had never dug his heels against the forces that pushed him to the threshold of that despair; he did not smile by day and dream of a balrog by night; he had not sung on a homeward march in the wake of the annihilation of his men, the death of his king. He did not fight day and night against impending doom armed with nothing but sheer body count, feasting and dancing in the darkness of caves.

Glorfindel took a limp hand, and caressed a bandaged wrist. Yes, he knew this deathly slumber. It was an end of a journey, a journey of forgotten tears; a journey where one stubbornly pushed, held, stood against one's own waning body and mind. And was at last, weary. And even then, fiercely beautiful in his refusal to yield.

Thranduil had trudged on, unheeding of his weariness and grief, gaze ever fixed on the distant horizon, not realizing that his feet had already given out under him. And he was at the end of his journey.

Glorfindel bowed his head. A golden glow began to envelope him, spreading onto the elvenking. Murmurs of an ancient language flowed from his lips, offering warmth and solace that spoke of the Undying Lands. And bathed in ancient blessings, the king remained broken and frail.

The soothing whispers died down, and the golden glow began to fade. The warmth in the tent dissipated into trembling droplets of silent mist.

Glorfindel remained unmoving, staring at the silver sheen in the air. "He weeps," he murmured at last, a voiceless whisper. "He does not even realize that he weeps." He reached a hand into the silver tremor. "And his forest weeps with him."

And from green leaves battered from the stormy rain, pearls of dew were beginning to slide down, heavily, heavily.

"Bring him back, Glorfindel." Glorfindel turned to find gray eyes smoldering with terror. "Bring him back," whispered Elrond.

Glorfindel regarded the much-older elvenlord in silence. At last, he raked a hand through his hair, a habit often observed in the woodland king. "I may be able to reach him," he said with resolve, "but I need help. Wake Legolas."

"But his memories -" Elrond hesitated. "I need more time, to bury his old memories, along with the new."

"There is no time." Glorfindel's voice was crisp. "Legolas must return at once; his memories will have to wait."

Elrond turned and swept an uncertain gaze over Legolas. He clenched his hands silently. Glorfindel laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder. "Take heart, child of Earendil." He squeezed reassuringly. "Love lays heavy burdens, but with it the strength to shoulder them."

"Aiya, Glorfindel," breathed Elrond, "but for those battered souls shoulder more – is there nothing we can do?"

Glorfindel had no answer. He looked long at the motionless elvenking. "I have long forsaken the Valar," he murmured, "but let us pray for them."

Elrond smiled a little. "But Thranduil is even more blasphemous than you are."

"He is unconscious. The Valar cannot hold grudges against the ailing."

"You would know."

"I do."

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The darkness was unyielding this time. Elrond furrowed his brows, forehead slick with perspiration. He insistently pressed down upon Legolas' chest.

_Open for me,_ he whispered. _I am here to help you._

But he could see nothing – nothing at all. The youth had allowed him entrance, and yet he was refusing to show him anything in the darkness. Standing amid the infinite abyss, Elrond was lost.

"You're back."

Elrond turned swiftly. The young voice vibrated within the enclosed walls of black. Then, from a dark mass of a wall, a small boy stepped out deliberately. A golden-haired child, not yet quite adolescent, watched him through narrowed eyes. Young enough to be at that age when Roloth…

Elrond held his breath.

The child crossed his arms. "Why are you here? Oh wait, I already know. You are here to reshape my mind again, are you not?"

Turning fully toward the child, Elrond offered a kind smile. "Legolas."

"Don't pretend." The child turned his back to the older elf. "I know what it is you're trying to do."

The lord watched, bewildered, as the child raised his finger. As he pointed at a spot in the darkness, shapes began to emerge. A small bed, inside a small cabin. The sun was setting. Another Legolas the child was lying on it, drugged and incoherent. A man stepped close, and climbed onto the bed.

Elrond's heart stopped. The memories from fifteen years ago had been awakened. Or perhaps –had he failed to seal them completely in the first place? His heart thundered against his chest.

"What is this, Legolas?" he asked gently, while his mind whirred inside. "Why are you here? Where is this place?"

"My place." The child waved the images away. "My chamber of secrets. Truth."

"For you alone?" Elrond glanced around at the darkness. "Tell me, child, why are you alone in such a lonely place?"

"I am not lonely," spat the child. "I can handle much more pain than that coward ever could. Which is why he gave me the heavier burden to bear."

"This coward you speak of – where is he?" said Elrond patiently. The child stared up, gauging. Elrond stood ever still.

At last, the child turned around. "Follow me," he said, briskly leading the way through the dark. Elrond watched formless darkness give way to another chamber of black. Legolas, the adolescent that he was now, sat naked on the floor. With his knees raised to his chin, he stared into emptiness.

"So what is it this time?" Child Legolas was watching guardedly. "Will you use your magic again to lie to this body? To manipulate his mind?"

Elrond bit his lip. "I only want what is best for you, Legolas."

"I don't know what best is," said the child. Elrond wished children weren't so expressively clear in their opinions. "There is bad, and there is more bad."

The child came to stand by Elrond, watching the motionless adolescent elf. "You tricked this child into believing that nothing of the sort had happened. And because of that, he was led to the same danger, doomed to remember, become doubly scarred. Your lies did nothing at all to help, do you understand? Nothing."

Elrond's eyes became fevered with desperation. This child was not the Legolas he knew. Even in the worst of his tempers, the child had never been so bitter, so unforgiving. Was his mind already ruptured?

Taking a step forward, he calmed his faltering heart. It was draining just to be standing inside these forbidden walls. "Legolas," he said, "I mourn for all that has come to pass, and yet I do not know if regret is the right path to seek." He looked long at the child. "It may have been different if I had not buried your memories. Perhaps you may have suffered less. Or more. Perhaps you would have been less happy, more safe. We shall never know."

He paused, carefully choosing his words. The child looked at him with distrust. "Your father made the only choice he could as a father, Legolas. We can regret, and wonder of what may have been, but he had made the choice that had seemed best, and there is no way to change that now."

The child looked away disdainfully. "That sounds rather irresponsible, coming from a grownup."

Elrond smiled, renewed sorrow and tenderness scorching his heart. "Will you let me help you, one more time? Will you tell us what is best for you this time?"

The child's eyes shot back toward the elvenlord, filled with trembling tears. "I do not need your help." He took a step back. "I do not need anyone's help. Stop trying to mold my mind. Let me be." With a resentful gaze, the child stepped back again, and disappeared into a wall of black.

Feeling numb, Elrond looked around. Well, that still left one…

With uncertainty, the elvenlord approached the adolescent on the floor, peering into distant eyes.

"Legolas?"

The youth slowly turned his gaze, but his eyes were a brightly glazed blue, still lingering upon a distance. Elrond's heart clenched as he kneeled before the youth, gently taking a warm head in between his hands. Valar, how many of him were there now? How many invisible, scattered pieces of this innocent child lay here, buried and forgotten in darkness?

Elrond fought back a lump that threatened to rise from his throat. "Legolas." He stroked soft hair. "What were you watching?"

Legolas slowly blinked, his face still blank. "I…Ada." He frowned. "I do not understand."

Elrond stroked his hair, battling the heat that threatened to burst from his heart. The youth's eyes remained haunted, distant.

"I do not understand. But it hurts. It hurts here." He slowly drew up his arm and touched his bare chest. Then he turned his gaze again, once more looking into that distance which was for his eyes alone. "Why is Ada crying?" A thick glaze trembled in glassy eyes, before breaking heavily like battered rain. The tears shattered unheeded in the darkness.

The youth reached out with childlike wonder, clutching feebly upon the lord's robes. "Help me," he whispered, and blinked, unknowing of the thick tears that rained from his trembling eyes. "Help me."

Elrond took a shuddering breath. The heated darkness in his heart was overcome; there was nothing more to be fought. No more questions. The decision was made.

"Ai, little Leaf," he breathed fiercely, pulling the frail body close, "I will help you. I will help you."

As the elvenlord held him close, stroking the golden head with fervent whispers, the youth's haunted gaze remained ever fixed upon that sad distance.

"I do not understand." His shoulders slumped mournfully. "But it makes me so sad."

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_**To Be Continued**_


	13. Between Life and Death

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

Thank you for your wonderful reviews!

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 12: Between Life and Death**_

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Dark hours of dawn found Glorfindel awake and dressed on his bed. Erestor cleared his throat, and noted with disapproval that the eyes that turned his way glowed brighter than usual. "You did not sleep," he accused.

Glorfindel answered with a wan smile. Erestor sat down on the bed with a scowl. "Mirkwood hunters captured the other human."

"Did they?" murmured Glorfindel.

"He is a bit burned, but faring much better than the younger one. Sadly enough."

"Indeed."

Silence stretched between them.

"Where were you?" said Erestor. Glorfindel smiled a little.

"Mordor."

With a quiet sigh, Erestor reached forward and pressed a gentle hand against Glorfindel's forehead. It was hot.

"Give your soul a chance to rest," he murmured, and began to press both of his hands against the taller elf's face and neck. Glorfindel watched with disinterest, and at length reached up and caught cold hands in his. Erestor watched as the taller elf stared down. Down, beyond the depths of the abyss. Glorfindel saw all and remembered all, but spoke little of what he had lived through. His face was ever full of joy; none would see him grieve, their radiant star.

So much like that Thranduil.

Erestor squeezed Glorfindel's hands. Glorfindel let out a deep breath. "We are about the same age, he and I." He smiled a little. "I – we – recognized something in each other the moment we met, I think."

Erestor nodded. He had heard. Glorfindel, returned to Arda in a body barely of age, had been found wandering around the battlefield, seeking his reason to live again. Searching for the house of Earendil, the child of Gondolin. And the royal captain of Greenwood was among the first he saw when he set foot in the Battle of the Last Alliance.

"Poor Oropher was always harried. With the greatest legion of armies to command, and that son of his always drawing attention to himself without having to try. So reckless, so carefree..." he chuckled softly. "Ai, amid that mess of blood and gore and chaos, he shone."

Erestor had seen it, when he first laid eyes upon the new king of Greenwood. Strict upbringing had perfected gallant courtesy, while pride and wit had sharpened deadly charm. He glowed with uncontainable fire, a fire that lightened the weight upon his sword, awakened green life upon his steps. His songs were magic, and his eyes twinkled with tireless laughter. Prince Thranduil of Second Age was what Lord Glorfindel of First Age had been: legendary, beloved.

A deep sigh broke through pensive silence. Glorfindel's eyes gazed at the dark blue of dawn, piercing through the darkness, piercing through the centuries of restless peace, through the stench of copper blood. And he was there again, wading among bodies that broke against his own, fighting his way to Elrond, that line of his beloved cousin Idril – Elrond, he was there, so close and yet so far – and then –

"I did not see the king fall," he whispered into the chill air, "but I heard the prince's scream."

At the cry of a legion of elves, he had turned to see the fall of the banner of Greenwood the Great. And breaking from their impeccable lines, elves were rushing forth, pulling their young captain from the fallen king. Soaked in his father's blood, the disheveled prince was struggling against the circle of warriors that thrust themselves between him and the enemy. His father was still out there, a trampled king under these creatures' boots – and his cursed soldiers were dragging him back, condemning him to live, dying in his stead, and he was cursing his enemies, cursing his allies, cursing his faithful soldiers, cursing the Valar – and Glorfindel had stopped in his tracks to watch the breaking of that twinkling youth that had ever sung its love of life. The captain of Greenwood, who ever led his people shoulder to shoulder with his majestic father, was falling, falling – and Glorfindel saw himself falling down that abyss, those yellow strands of hair streaming like a thousand tears.

Glorfindel bowed his head. Erestor caressed calloused hands, and Glorfindel gave a weak smile, strangled, tearful.

"I never heard anyone scream like that before."

Erestor gently pulled a golden head against his own.

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The campground was quiet; Mirkwood elves, now heavily reinforced, were spread wide and silent. The morning mist hung thick in the air, and yet it was not fell; it wrapped about them gently, whispering ghostly melodies none could understand.

Elrohir nodded to the healer as he entered the king's healing tent, and the healer rose and exited. Legolas was kneeling by his father, a bandaged hand in his. His eyes were distant as he stared into the morning air. Elrohir looked down at the king and was troubled; he had seen the king thus before, and yet this time was different. Wrapped in a faint hum of the silver fog, the king looked light and phantasmal, lingering in a place not quite of this world.

Legolas was pale, his eyes ghostly bright, undoubtedly spent of his healing magic. "He does not answer my call," he said, staring emptily at the king. Pale hands caressed a lock of hair. "He is lost to even me."

Elrohir kneeled by the prince. "Courage, Legolas," he whispered.

Tumbling eyes slowly turned his way, and Elrohir reached out to wipe them. Legolas blinked. He turned back to his father, pressing his lips against cold knuckles. "Wake up, Ada," he whispered. "Your little Greenleaf is here."

The king lay on, silent. Legolas closed his eyes. Silver trails dropped mournfully down. "Where are you?" he whispered. "Why can't you hear my call?" He raised his eyes, glazed bright and forlorn. "Ai, my father," he breathed, "when have I begun to lose you?"

Elrohir's heart clenched as he wrapped an arm around the prince's shoulder. Legolas lowered his gaze once again. "Wake up, Ada," he whispered, "we must go home together. I am coming home with you this time, Ada – I am coming home. And I will not leave your side again."

Try as he might, Elrohir could find no words of courage to give. He squeezed the prince's shoulder tight. Legolas bowed his head.

"You promised." Muffled by damp sheets, the hot voice finally came broken. "You promised that you would never leave me."

_Fear not, little Greenleaf. I shall never leave you._

As heated tears seeped into mournful silence, the dawn watched on, bleeding into morning.

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_When the war is over, father, we shall return home together. _

Thranduil watched a torn banner flap in the wind. His fingers were stiff around his bloody sword; his armor, stained with grime and gore, jingled as broken debris moved with every breath he took. He looked around with dulled eyes.

The battleground was covered with broken bodies, bloody and mangled. He was ankle-deep in yet another body, and he did not bother to move. For as far as his eyes could see, there was nothing in these desolate plains but death. The banner of Greenwood was broken, torn, and his people lay dead about his feet. And Oropher the Valiant had fallen – his strong, unyielding father, who had ever led them onward, onward – he had fallen.

Oropher never broke his promises. And he had refused to promise to return home alive. He had only smiled on. It had been strange, that smile; his father had only ever scolded him.

_A leader should never fall behind in battle, _he would say. _The king must be the strongest warrior in the lands. If you cannot protect your people, you are no longer worthy of your throne. _

_What about the prince, father?_ He had asked once. And Oropher had chuckled.

_A prince, little Thranduil_, he had said, stroking his hair, _should be second-strongest._

The torn banner flapped ever vigorously in the blue of the sky. Thranduil slowly sank to his knees.

The battle had been won. But for him, it was the end. He had lost.

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Erestor was speaking with a Mirkwood councilor when he caught a glimpse of the prince striding out of the healing tent. Both councilors watched the prince duck into the prisoner's tent, and reappear dragging the young man by his collar. Both councilors exchanged glances as the prince disappeared into the healing tent, and hastily followed.

Elrond looked up sharply as four people rushed in, and a human was thrown onto the ground. Glorfindel remained hunched over the king, bathed in a faint sheen of light, seemingly unaware of the commotion.

"Look," snarled Legolas, "look well, son of Man; your vengeance is complete."

The young man looked around, at last gazing upon the motionless elvenking on the cot. He looked away. Legolas' hand grabbed his chin and forced him to turn. "Look," he repeated menacingly. "Remember, son of Man. Remember this day." He reached out with another hand, and pulled out a long bejeweled scabbard from the bedside.

"My prince." The Mirkwood advisor quickly stepped between elf and man. "My gentle prince, hold your wrath a while."

"Move, Tembor."

The advisor stood his ground. "You have not thought of doing this before."

Legolas' gaze burned upon the man. "Forgiveness died the moment my father fell." With a silver flourish, a screeching blade rose into the air.

"My healer prince, my warrior prince," breathed the dark-haired advisor, "our beloved prince, do not stain your hands with this unworthy blood."

"My hands are already stained." Legolas turned a smoldering eye upon the advisor. "Did you not see the trail of orc heads I left my way? Did you not see my father bleeding from my blade? No, Lord Tembor, my hands are unclean." His eyes turned to the man, a gloss of silver forming unawares. "They reek of the blood of my tortured kin, the blood of my dearest father."

The air fell into a hush. The advisor hesitated. "The king is not entirely lost -"

"And if I can sacrifice this man on an altar, I shall do so gladly!" the prince shouted, a bloody cry. "I will bathe in his blood, wring out every drop from his heart, if it brings me back my father!"

"Ai, my little Greenleaf..."

Silence descended like a mighty hand.

Legolas slowly turned, trembling eyes alight with hope and dread. "Ada?" he breathed.

But the king remained pale and motionless; hunched beside him, Glorfindel was glowing with intense golden warmth. The light shimmered in the droplets of mist, spreading a divine halo in the air of the tent. Glorfindel's lips moved, eyes unseeing.

"Stay your hand, child; the line of Oropher shall not slay in bloodlust." His glow was intensifying. "For you are the son of King Thranduil, crown prince of Greenwood the Great; in your veins courses the royal blood of the Firstborn..."

Legolas' breath froze. Those words – he knew those words. He had spoken them, word by word, the night of his first orc slaying; the night he had almost died – the night he had finally bid farewell to Nana.

"Who are you?" he whispered. Silence trembled.

And then, the golden light flickered out, and Elrond was holding Glorfindel's falling body. The wondrous warmth in the tent was extinguished, replaced by cold gray.

"You must go slow, Glorfindel, and not in this direction; you know this is dangerous." Elrond looked at Legolas. "Come, Legolas, it is nigh time." Casting a glance at the man on the floor, he switched to the Common Tongue. "Meanwhile, my lords... what are the charges against this man?"

"Trespassing," was Erestor's ready answer, in the same tongue: "false oaths in court, poisoning, injury and attempted murder against the sons of our Lord Elrond."

"Trespassing," supplied the councilor of Mirkwood, eying the man with dark malice, "kidnapping, assault, torture, attempting to stir a mutiny in court, poisoning, stalking, injury, attempted murder and crimes of decadence against our lord King Thranduil and his son."

Elrond nodded. "Prince of Mirkwod," he said quietly, "Rivendell hands this man to you. What is your verdict?"

Legolas turned to stare at the man, who backed away on his knees. The young prince threw his sword down.

"Your life will be at the mercy of my father's return," he snarled. "If he fades, you shall die."

He briskly turned away from the man, and neared the bed. "I shall have him here with me, my lords," he said, kneeling and grasping his father's hand. "I shall have him by my side until my father wakes, and he shall breathe every moment of his revenge here with me."

The Mirkwood councilor bowed. "We will place guards around the tent."

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Thranduil slowly laid down his head. Blood stuck at his hair, slid up his feet. He gingerly laid down his sword. It felt heavy, so heavy. He closed his eyes and sighed.

_When the war is over, father..._

His breaths became shallow. His body began to feel weightless.

_We shall return home together._

At last, he would go home to his father.

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Gama fidgeted, and stilled when he earned a sharp glanced from the dark-haired Mirkwood elf in the corner. He drew a breath and resigned himself to kneeling for the rest of the day, watching an unmoving father and an unmoving son and counting the hours.

But the dull ache did not come only from his numb legs. The healers had done their duty swiftly, but the arrow had hit its mark with deadly accuracy; every breath he took was pained, a sharp reminder of that stormy night of white-hot blade and dancing fire. He shut his eyes. It was a brand upon his heart, that bright night; and the young elf to whom he had poured out his fifteen years of vengeance was still alive, blindingly so. And with every heated breath he bestowed upon his motionless father, he shone – and Gama could but look away, with a dull ache in his chest.

The young elf had been right. This sight was a punishment he had brought upon himself – father and son, bound by chains stronger than those Gama had placed on the king. Perhaps he had known that it would come to this; perhaps he had known, and yet was powerless to stop his mad run toward the edge. Knowing that he would fall – knowing that he would take others with him, end it all with blind destruction. But in the end, he was the only one who had fallen – and he was forced to see the outcome.

No, not alone. The king had fallen also. He lay deathly pale, unmoving for days, unresponsive to his sons' fervent prayers. It was over.

He caught a glimpse of the dark-haired elf rising and exiting the tent. The young elf did not move from his spot, and seated at the head of the cot was the yellow-haired terror who had thrown a sword at him in Rivendell, also looking intensely occupied.

"What are you waiting for?"

Gama started. Beside him stood the dark-haired Chief Councilor of Rivendell. "You are skilled at it, are you not?" he said quietly. "Poisoning, taking captive, fleeing, threatening, hiding, killing." His dark gaze was unreadable. "We are unarmed, and you are unbound. Why do you hesitate?"

"Is this a test?" spat Gama, almost reflexively. He glanced at the young elf. "Leaving me unbound clearly means there is a trap somewhere. Why would you leave me next to your king and prince so openly?"

The young elf did not bother looking up. "My father is dying," he said bitterly. "I care not what you do."

Gama looked at the king again. Again it came back to the king. The father and son. He breathed wearily. It was over – and yet the torture went on. He had imagined death for himself at the end of his journey. And yet he was alive, forced to breathe the consequences, to wait in perilous silence as hope walked on the thin ice over dread. He had been long prepared for the end, but not this. Not this sharing of what he had given to these people.

And now – now, the naïve youth he had planned to destroy now stood destroyed, at that edge of bitter despair, blind to death and torture. The young elf who had looked upon him with innocence and genuineness. The little elf had his memories back; the king lay dying; the elven kingdom was enveloped in terror and explosive grief. His revenge was complete.

And kneeling before the orphan he had created, Gama was weary. How he wished he could dissipate into the thin mist, become one with the thousand droplets that veiled the air. He closed his eyes.

"Have you even lost your will to survive?" At a quiet whoosh, Gama opened his eyes to see the advisor reach to his side. "I shall release you from your miserable existence if you wish," he said, drawing a gleaming blade with practiced ease. Gama glanced at the youth, who did not bother turning to look.

"Now you see, child of Man, your life is done." Aiming the sword perfectly down the man's throat, the slender advisor stood majestic. "Having lived for this moment, you have come to your end. You have had every chance to turn back, and now you have sealed your fate. You have but to wish it, Man, and I shall grant you eternal rest."

Gama watched the gleaming blade, the beautiful black wings of death. The blade pressed against his throat. He swallowed. "No," he said huskily.

"No?" The blade trailed a path down the man's throat.

"Please," whispered Gama. "I cannot die yet."

How he wished to rest. But his memories betrayed him. Now he remembered – why his chest was aching. Why he refused to watch the young elf beg the father to return to life.

"I have a little brother," said Gama. He swallowed. "I had left him behind in a village – to wait while I -" he could not go on. He hung his head. Why was this so hard to say? He had his vengeance, he was offered peaceful rest. But he could not – could not end things here, in this reverently silent tent where a young adolescent clung to a dying father, and sorrow and hope mingled in a woeful dance. He could not – he could not spill blood here. He could not watch this. He could not make him cry any more – that little boy –

"Please," he whispered thickly. "I cannot die yet."

The advisor watched coolly on. And then, with a keening wail, the sword slid back into its scabbard.

"Get ready," he called, eyes on the man. Gama realized he was speaking to the young elf; Legolas looked up, as did Gama, to find the tall elf's golden glow slowly intensifying. A strange silence descended, and Legolas reached for the tall elf's hand.

"Saes," he breathed, and though Gama could not understand the meaning of the word, he felt the trembling hope in the room as keenly as a blade.

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The sky was an empty blue.

Thranduil walked slowly among broken bodies, his legs heavy with blood. He knew not where he was headed, or even remember why he was bothering to walk among this sea of bodies – but doggedly he trudged on, until at last he came upon the broken banner of Greenwood. And seated upon a blood-splattered rock, looking down upon the broken shaft, was a living elf. His armor looked just as battered as Thranduil's, and cords of yellow hair fell in tangled tresses of blood. Thranduil came to a halt.

"Have you been separated from the House of Earendil?" he called quietly. "Or do you come to bear witness to this dark day for Greenwood?"

The blond elf turned, and dark blue eyes regarded him, unreadable in their openness. "I come for the son of Oropher."

"You know to whom you speak."

"Aye." The elf finally rose. "I do."

Thranduil stepped back as the tall elf's hair slid over his shoulders, and his armor shifted. Tossing back pristine strands of hair, the elf raised his eyes; they shimmered with a silver light, clear as glass, and green as the great forests of Greenwood the Great.

"Welcome, child." A clear voice rang, strong and exuberant. "My heart sings to see thee."

Thranduil held his breath. From limp fingers fell a bloodied sword; his face contorted into a painful smile, brightening into childlike wonder.

"Father," he whispered.

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_**To Be Continued**_

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	14. Good Bye to Yesterday

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

And this chapter and the previous one have tiny references to quotes from _The Strength of One Green Leaf._

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 13: Good Bye to Yesterday**_

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Thranduil dutifully trailed after his father, who walked briskly among the mangled bodies that lined the ground. "Why are you here, Thranduil?" said his father's voice, and the younger elf raised his eyes to see muscles rippling across a broad back. Oropher did not turn.

"I -" Thranduil faltered. He could not remember. "I don't know."

Oropher glanced back, a distance away. "Do not slow," he called sternly. But the carnage stretched for leagues around them, as far as the eyes could see; they would never be able to leave this place. Why bother?

Still, Thranduil followed his father. He would follow him anywhere.

"Think, Thranduil," his father called briskly. "Remember."

There were vague images, voices. But they were full of screams, tears, pain; surely they could not be real...

"Keep going, Thranduil." Oropher glanced back. "Do you remember?"

The younger elf dropped his gaze. Someone was calling – far away – but no, it was only a raven –

"Walk!"

Oropher was already far ahead. Why was he leaving him so quickly? Thranduil hastened his pace. He could not lose him here.

_Don't ever leave me, Ada._

He blinked.

"Well?" Oropher glanced back.

"I – I don't know." Thranduil glanced around. "Where are we going, father?"

"Away from here."

"But – there is no end to this wasteland."

Oropher suddenly stopped, and Thranduil caught himself before colliding into a hard body. He raised his eyes to meet glittering green. "If you lose sight of the shore, Thranduil, will you cease to sail?" Oropher's voice cut like a knife. "If you lose your way, will you end your journey?"

Thranduil lowered his gaze. "No, father."

Oropher resumed his stride. "We did not march to war thinking that we would win," he said briskly. "We did not battle balrogs expecting to come away alive."

_When the war is over, father, we shall return home together._

Thranduil froze in his tracks.

Oropher stopped, and turned to see Thranduil staring at the ground. "Do you remember now, child?" he called gently. "Why you wander in this land of death?"

Thranduil slowly raised his eyes. His lips moved, let out a trembling breath as he drank in the sight of his father. "The forests are dying," he whispered, and paused, as if struggling to remember. "Regimes of men – they spread like wildfire, tearing the lands asunder with greed. What you defended with your life is swallowed by darkness." He took a deep breath, and he shut his eyes, assaulted by crashing waves of memory. "I try to fight, father, every day – but we continue to lose, we retreat further and further into caves – father," he breathed, "Mother left." He opened his eyes, and they were haunted again, as they had been when he embraced his mother, begged her to stay. When his mother had held his gaze with hers, glazed with tears, and had smiled with that fierce whisper: _Hail King Thranduil._

Oropher broke the palpable silence. "You do not lose when you fall. You lose when you cease to rise again." He let out a long sigh. "Leave this battlefield behind, son. You must walk on."

"For the sake of the people," said the younger elf, almost automatically. He blinked. "Father, I –" he gazed up, almost fearfully. "Can I not come with you, to Valinor?"

Oropher looked long at Thranduil. The younger elf bowed his head. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I am not as brave as everyone thinks I am."

With a sigh, Oropher's eyes softened. "I can protect you no longer, my son. There will be trial and pain." Thranduil felt his father step closer, radiating warmth from his body. "You may question why you survived, you may curse the Valar and their design, and you may even fall – and Thranduil, child, you may." Oropher offered a faint smile when surprised eyes looked upward. "So long as you rise again."

Thranduil's eyes lingered upon that smile. How he had loved his father's smile – that roguish, jagged smile, deep in its creases and bright in its angular lines. It was rare, and when it surfaced, Thranduil's heart had trembled with joy. _Ai, father, what I would not give to have you smile at me again._

Oropher looked away into the distant sky, where the ravens cried. "Some day, you will find your path again." His eyes came back to rest on Thranduil's eyes, young and forlorn. "And along the way, you will find laughter again, and you will draw strength, for life will be worth another fight."

"I tire of fighting." Thranduli's shoulders sagged. "You are gone," he whispered, "Nana is gone, and the kingdom falls, and I cannot even weep, for I am king."

Oropher shook his head. "My brave, innocent son. The kingdom weeps the tears you refuse to shed."

Thranduil blinked.

"I have always said the king must be the strongest of the people," said Oropher, "but understand that the people love you, and therein lies the strength you seek. You need not be strong alone."

Thranduil felt his father begin to step away, and instinctively gripped his sleeve. Oropher looked down at the white-knuckled grip, and shook his head. "Give me your word," he said sternly, "that you will leave this place."

"Father-"

"Your word, Thranduil."

With a trembling breath, Thranduil closed his eyes. A silent tear fell, and another. "Yes, father," he whispered. "I will leave."

Oropher hesitated. Thranduil slowly opened his eyes, thick with a translucent sheen. Oropher reached out and pulled Thranduil's head into his breast.

"One thing do I ever regret from life," he murmured into soft hair. "Ai, how I wish I had held you more often in my arms..."

Thranduil buried his head into his father's breast. "Ada, don't go," he whispered, muffled and broken. "I can't do this without you."

"You are not without me." The large hand was as calloused as Thranduil remembered them to be. "In the darkest nights, my son, look above in the eastern skies."

Thranduil opened his eyes to see his father pull away, enveloped in a golden glow. His pale eyes watched in despair as the glow brightened into blinding light, and then took form once again – rugged edges were replaced by smooth lines, marble instead of steel. "Evergreen shall your forests be," said a fading voice, overlapped by a soft baritone- "-and in that light-" said the elf, watching Thranduil with deep blue eyes, "I shall guide your night."

With a faltering step backward, Thranduil sank to his knees. The golden elf sank down with him.

"He could not stay, Thranduil," he said gently. "I can defy the Valar for only so long."

Thranduil heaved a deep breath, and then another. A cataract of yellow hair spilled around him, smooth and heavy, unlike his father's light strands. At last Thranduil looked upward, and watching him were eyes of twilight blue, so different from the glittering green of his father that it hurt to breathe.

And looking into those dark eyes, Thranduil suddenly remembered. "I came searching for you," he said hoarsely.

"For me?"

"Yes." Thranduil's gaze wandered over the warrior elf before him, the long yellow hair, the deep blue eyes, the broad shoulders and tanned skin – "I wanted to see that you were still alive. Still glowing... that heroics were rewarded, and goodness was not a myth. That..." he smiled a little. "That some golden things still existed in this world."

The other elf looked at him with understanding. His adolescent features deepened, and his eyes held a twinkling secret Thranduil could not quite read. "Prince Thranduil," he said, looking into his eyes, "is that all you came searching for?"

Thranduil stared. Something in his chest contracted. The ravens were crying.

"I was hailed as one of the mightiest, fairest and greatest of my time." The golden elf rose to his feet, and looked out into the distance. And even in his young, battle-worn body, he was majestic, beautiful. "But now, it is your time. A new Age waits, and it is not mine to take." He glanced back, and smiled again. "Rise and walk, prince," he whispered. "Lead your people home."

_You are hailed as the greatest of kings – _

_I shall fear no evil – _

_My Ada is the mightiest warrior in Mirkwood!_

_Ada – _

Thranduil started.

_Don't ever leave me, Ada. I promise I'll be a good elfling._

_Fear not, my little Greenleaf. I shall never – _

_Greenleaf..._

_Greenleaf._

"Legolas!" Thranduil almost screamed in terror. How had he forgotten? He struggled to his feet, sweeping the battlefield with a desperate gaze. His knees felt leaden, his body battered and fragmented – but he could feel no pain or weight. "Little Greenleaf," he breathed, "My little Greenleaf..."

The ravens cried again. Thranduil looked up, suddenly aware of the cries. They were feeble, distant – but he knew that voice better than his own.

He was dimly aware of the Vanya's absence from his sight. He turned to scour the unending battlefield again, eyes hardening.

_When the war is over, father..._

Under the endless blue skies, he trudged resolutely forward.

_I shall never leave you._

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Erestor was poking his head in to check for progress when it happened. The king's gaze was cleared, a few seconds before Legolas realized it; looking up from his fervent prayers, the youth had skipped a breath, and cried out. The man on the ground was nearly trampled on as elves rushed from all directions. Legolas was weeping and laughing, holding and kissing the king, who smiled faintly despite his deathly pallor; The prince was thanking the Valar, thanking Glorfindel, who slumped in exhaustion, thanking Elrond, who was not there, and thanking Erestor, because he was poking his head in.

_Ada_, he had laughed, and wept, _I knew you would come back to me._

Soon the cry was raised, and elves came running in, cheering and shouting and weeping and laughing. Erestor excused himself to make room, and took the human with him.

"Are you going to kill me?" said the man, as he was dumped unceremoniously onto the floor of the prisoner's tent. The older man in the corner scampered away.

"No," said Erestor, "though it would give me great satisfaction." He moved to leave.

"Then what do you plan to do with me?" The young man's voice was disbelieving. "Will you set me free? You elves, ever forgiving and kind?"

"If we set you free, where will you go?" Erestor glanced back. "Will you return to your young brother?"

The man dropped his gaze. "No," he whispered. "I cannot go back to him."

"Perhaps," agreed Erestor. "Your hands are too stained to raise an innocent child after all. Your vengeance has taken away what little he had left."

He exited, leaving the man to silent grief.

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Elrond stood at the entrance of the tent, watching the lone elf. Freed from warrior plaits, unruly strands of hair tumbled down slumped shoulders, looking frail and soft. _So_ _young_, Elrond thought suddenly. This elf was meant for golden things. His heart mourned to see him thus, a spitfire that had once been hailed as the tenacious heart of Greenwood, the most indomitable of all elven spirits of the Age. As soon as he stepped out of this tent, he would be the confident king once more, in tight warrior plaits and hardened armor. And it would break Elrond's heart.

He deliberately approached the younger elf, and laid a hand upon a shoulder.

"You must not sit up yet, Thranduil. You lost much blood, my friend."

The king started, his hand automatically coming up to rake back his hair, and Elrond's heart sank to see the bandages around his wrists soaked in red. "Give me your hands."

Thranduil looked down, and smiled faintly. "It bleeds as long as I am awake. You need not bother."

"Of course I need to bother. You are bleeding." Elrond gave a disapproving look. "Give me your hands."

"It's only a trickle."

"Thranduil."

After a moment of silence, the king held out his hands. Elrond set about redoing the healing ministrations. Thranduil watched with detachment.

It seemed so pointless, to redo what had been tried – and failed – and yet. Yet.

Warmth tingled from his skin as bleeding was once again forcefully staunched. He felt light and dizzy, not quite of this world. His only grave injury, aside from the trauma of being buried under rock debris, had been these wrists. And yet – the chains had cut deep, and the bleeding continued. "Was it selfish of me, I wonder?" he murmured.

Elrond's hand slowed. Thranduil chuckled softly. "Had it been myself, I would not have erased the memory. I would have tried to fight it, conquer it, let it make me stronger." He closed his eyes as Elrond tightened fresh bandages around his wrist. "But as a father, I could not watch my child war with that choice." He gave a thin sigh. "Now I wonder."

"Would you have done things differently?" Elrond released the wrists.

Thranduil opened his eyes with a small smile. "No."

"I have been thinking," Elrond said slowly, "as the world ages, I find right and wrong more difficult to place. Perhaps there is no such thing, no one correct path we could have chosen. There are a million questions, and a million answers, and among them we shall never know." He sighed. "We choose among the paths we can see at the time, and live with the consequences of that choice. Isn't that what is important, in the end, Thranduil?" He slowly gathered the younger elf's wrists into his hands. "We are not the Valar. We are not perfect. We only live what has come to pass the best we can – and as long as we try our best, I think we are worthy of being called good."

Thranduil smiled faintly. "I didn't think you were an optimist."

"One can only live in so many yesterdays." Elrond gave a rueful smile in return. "Besides, someone needs to fill in while you're angsting."

"You are rather bad at it. But I commend you for the effort." Thranduil squared his shoulders. "Well, then, my honored guest, will you allow me to escort your entourage to my humble abode?" He rose to his feet with a sweeping bow. "I find that I crave a comfortable bed, a decent meal, and some heady wine, in reverse order. Humor me with a prolonged stay."

Quickly rising to steady the king's faltering steps, Elrond gave a long-suffering look. "Why is it that whenever I visit, I find you on the verge of trouble, knee deep in trouble, or injured and dying?"

"Mere coincidence." Thranduil waved a hand dismissively. "My life is just more exciting than yours."

"Or I happen to be always saving your sorry behind."

"Ha. You wish."

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Elrohir was returning to Elladan's tent when he spotted a speck of yellow ghosting around it in the dark. "Legolas?" he called through the mist. Legolas turned with a start. "What are you looking for?" Elrohir was sure he had seen the younger elf scouring the skies.

"Oropher's star," came a hesitant reply. "My father told me to look for a green star in the east."

Elrohir looked upward. Legolas came nearer. "Where have you been?" His breath was visible in the chill air.

"Visiting the humans." Rather, Elrohir had been demonstrating to the humans that Legolas wasn't the only one capable of losing a temper, but Legolas didn't need to know that. Legolas eyed Elrohir's roughened knuckles, and seemed to decide not to ask.

"Elladan does not wake." Legolas frowned. "Is he well?"

"You saved him in time, little Leaf." Elrohir smiled. "He merely sleeps."

"Good." Legolas hesitated. "I don't – I don't think I will return to Rivendell for a while, Elrohir." He paused, feeling Elrohir's silence. "I wish to learn more from Lord Elrond, but-" he shifted uneasily. "I must fight with my father to protect my home. Darkness grows close, and I have not the luxury of having them both. A healer and warrior – I must choose my path."

Elrohir studied him carefully. "You have already chosen."

"Yes."

Silence fell. And then, Elrohir's voice came again, jagged. "You came to say goodbye."

Legolas shifted. "I..." Frosted leaves crunched beneath his feet. "I am not running away, like last time. My father told me to go."

"What? Where?"

"Lothlorien."

Elrohir watched the prince, realizing that something was changed about the youth. Bright eyes were fevered, haunted; in the dark blue of dawn, he seemed to radiate with throbbing heat, stirring the chill air with every breath he took. His father was alive, but so were his memories of fifteen years past. He looked up at Elrohir, and he seemed older, wearier.

"Darkness grows," said the young elf, "and travel wanes. When I return home, I shall stay a long time, and train to become the captain of the royal guard. I will fight shoulder to shoulder with my father to protect my home."

Elrohir nodded slowly.

"I insisted on returning home with him," said Legolas, "but he said I should fulfill my promise first, visit the Golden Woods one last time, before I return home for good."

Elrohir looked forlornly at his companion. The young elf's quest for knowledge was over; his questions and dilemmas were done. He had had his answer, had paid the price, and now he had chosen his path in this war. Little Leaf's childhood was coming to an end.

"Fighting is dirty," said Elrohir, quietly. "But sometimes it must be done. There is no shame, Legolas, if you take up arms to protect your home from invading evil. It is the greed and expanding conquests of Man we must beware."

"Elrohir, I-" Legolas turned grateful eyes upward. "I may never be a healer again."

"One day you will be, little Leaf." Elrohir smoothed a lock of yellow hair. "We will fight today, Legolas, and save our tears for tomorrow. And after we defeat the darkness, dear brother, we will lay down our arms, and you shall be a healer, as I shall be a scholar, and we will reside in everlasting peace."

Legolas smiled feebly. "Perhaps," he whispered. "Perhaps that day will come, and I, too, may make flowers bloom under my feet."

A green star twinkled above as Elrohir pulled Legolas into a gentle embrace.

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_**To Be Continued**_


	15. To Sanctuary

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.

**Rating**: PG -13

**Summary**: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?

**Author's Note**: This story contains references to _To Love and to Sin_, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of _From Twilight to Dawn_. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.

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By _**Kasmi Kassim**_

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,

_**Road to Redemption**_

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_**Chapter 14: To Sanctuary **_

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Dawn was brightening. Amid the restless peace, Glorfindel stormed into his tent, and started when Erestor rose from a chair in the corner.

"The escorts are here," Erestor said, watching Glorfindel walk around the tent like a caged animal, albeit a magnificent one. "We leave in an hour. Did the humans leave?"

"The older one scampered off immediately. The younger one is still sitting there." Glorfindel scowled. "I wish I could walk by so I could have an accident with my sword."

Erestor chuckled. "Let it be, Glorfindel. Legolas thinks demonstrating forgiveness might put an end to this."

"Forgiveness." Glorfindel stopped mid-pace, and turned an eye to Erestor. "That's a steep price to pay, Erestor. It expects to be repaid in repentance, but not everyone can afford it."

Erestor looked uncertainly at Glorfindel.

With a long sigh, Glorfindel raked his fingers through his hair. "Our kind young Thranduillion is idealistic," he murmured. "Some people do not understand the tremendous gravity of their sins, the pain that they have caused. That is why they cannot grasp the tremendous gravity of the forgiveness they are granted." His eyes flickered. "Such a sacrifice is wasted on the likes of that human. When betrayed again, Legolas will be doubly wounded, and perhaps become too jaded to even forgive those who deserve."

Erestor dared a breath. "You believe the older man will go after Legolas, after all this."

Glorfindel let out a rueful smile. "You haven't seen him conscious, have you, Erestor? I have. Before Elrohir beat him to a pulp." He slowly turned to gaze out into a distance. "I know that look in his eyes. I have seen it too many times to count."

Erestor hesitated. "Were there many elves who were like him?"

"Perhaps not those of the same sins, no." Glorfindel sighed. "But that look – Erestor, why do you think the Firstborn would exile themselves from the Blessed Realm and cross the unforgiving ice? Why would so many betray, battle, slay fellow kinsmen? They were haunted, my friend, possessed with a longing they could not contain. And it overcame them."

The weight of the ages settled into the tent, thick as fog. Erestor's voice was hushed. "Is there no hope for such men?"

"Not that man. He is old, and has not the strength, or will, to start anew. His life is marked."

The Vanya suddenly seemed ancient in his youth and beauty, softened in the remnants of a jagged grief that had been weathered by time. "If victims have a blessing," he said softly, "it is that they are free to grant forgiveness. Pity. And then, forget and move on." He turned to look at Erestor. "He, on the other hand, has no such salvation."

Erestor sat very still. Glorfindel slowly moved forward. He held out a hand. "Come, dear councilor," he said, with a weak smile. "It is time."

With a weary smile of his own, Erestor allowed Glorfindel to pull him to his feet.

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Legolas was already on his horse, bidding farewell to the Mirkwood elves, when the two arrived at the center of the dew-laden campsite. After all the goodbyes were said, Thranduil held out a great black scabbard emblazoned with the royal crest. Legolas started. "Father, that's-"

"Take it." Thranduil thrust the scabbard into the hesitant youth's arms, and turned to call to a Mirkwood trooper. Legolas stared down at his father's sword, running his fingers down the exquisite inlays of gold. His own weapons had been crushed under the rubble of the fortress; his knives would be taken back to Mirkwood to be re-forged, and he would need to make a new bow on his own.

Thranduil turned with a ewer in his hands, and held it out to Legolas. When Legolas reached for it without hesitation, Thranduil said in a low voice: "Water from the enchanted stream."

Legolas froze. Stunned eyes turned to his father, questions rising in a storm. The king did not thrust the ewer into the youth's arms. "I only offer you the choice," he said, holding the son's gaze with the intensity of his own. "Whatever you choose, I will trust, and approve."

Silence lingered. Legolas closed his fingers around the handle of the ewer.

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Elladan woke in a sumptuous bed, with a sleepy Elrohir curled up by his side. It did not take long for him to be wringing his sheets as Elrohir watched on helplessly. Elladan was about to struggle out of bed when their host came to see the progress of his ailing guest.

"Is it true, then, that he left alone?" Disbelief in his eyes begged the king to deny. The king nodded. Elladan's face grew dark.

"With all due respect, sire," he said slowly, "last time we let him go alone, things did not turn out well."

"I offered to accompany him," sighed Elrohir, "but he refused."

"We must go after him." Elladan pulled himself out of bed. Thranduil firmly pushed him back down.

"Legolas will be safe, Elladan." The conviction in his voice stayed Elladan's restless body. Thranduil looked wistfully out the window. "So long as he carries my sword, no creature shall look upon him with unclean eyes."

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The gray skies stretched on, swept by the winds into the mountains in the distance. Lorien was near.

Legolas stood by his horse, waiting patiently until the man caught up.

"I have no more food to give you," he said. "There is a human village nearby. Go, and start anew."

"I cannot," sighed the man. "I tried to leave you, you know I did – but I am haunted by your visage, and it is killing me. I can't douse the fire you have set on my veins."

The young elf grimaced. The man chuckled. "Such cold eyes... you really are a prince of elves."

"I can help you no more." Legolas stepped back. "Be gone."

He did not expect the tired man to move so fast. He dodged swiftly, but was caught by his tunic and thrown onto the grass, straining against the weight of the man.

"Do you know how long I have waited for this?" the man hissed. "How many fevered dreams I suffered for this, putting up with that idiot Gama and his plans?" Rough hands made quick work of the tunic. Legolas gasped. _Roloth_.

With a sharp cry, he strained, and found that he could not overpower the man. His vision whitened. _Think_, _Legolas_, _think!_

Amid the panic, his body worked with battle-honed instinct, and went limp enough to upset the man's balance. Legolas quickly rolled to the side, and managed to push the man off before springing to his feet. He swiftly moved away. "Vengeance I understand," he said, breathing hard, "but this – whatever it is, Rolof, this will lead you to ruin." His hands shook.

Rolof laughed mirthlessly. "I know. I am a slave to my desires. Just as you are a slave to your father's anguish."

Legolas' eyes flickered, and the man took his chance to lunge. Tackled onto the grass, the elf hissed, "Leave my father out of this!"

"Anything you say, prince." Hands dug into his tunic. Legolas reached to the side with a free hand, fumbling among the grass. Just as the man began to undo his tunic, Legolas' fingers hooked around the sheathed sword and swung it to his chest; the man cried out, drawing back as if burned. Legolas raised his head and stared as the scabbard shone blindingly, white-hot runes spinning in a pulsing rhythm of blessed magic.

The man stumbled away, clutching at his eyes. "What is this?" he cried. "What have you done to me?"

Legolas shakily stood. The man fell to his knees. "Curse you! How dare you – how dare you!" He grabbed fistfuls of grass, writhing. "You will pay for this, elfling!"

The elf looked down at his sword, realizing that this was his chance to strike. Yet he stumbled back, dropping the shining sword from his shaking hands. The glow died down, the magic no longer whispering in his hand. He needed to be away from this man. Away from those screams. "Take the horse," he breathed. "It will lead you to the human village. Do not come back."

"I will come back for you, cursed elf!" cried the man, as the elf hurried away. "I will come back for you as long as I live!"

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Gama sat on the forest ground where the campsite once had been. With the elves gone, shadows seemed darker, and the sounds of the forest seemed more sinister. He was staring into the thorn-laced path when a lithe black figure appeared from behind, passing him.

"Where are you going?" he called out absently.

The slender elf turned. It was the dark-haired councilor from Rivendell, radiating silent power even when garbed in a light tunic and a sword. He regarded the man in silence as fey winds brushed past his warrior plaits.

"I seek a path to my past, Master Human," he said.

"Your past?" Gama stared. "Why now? Why here?"

"Sometimes, when one is lost – it is best to start back from where the path began to derail." He smiled mirthlessly, as if to himself. "A past is a good marker to the future. But in my case, it is only to satisfy my curiosity."

Realization dawned, and Gama struggled to his feet. The elf watched on with an unreadable expression as the taller man righted himself. "I will do the same," he said, a new determination breathing strength into his feet.

"Will you?" The elf turned and began to walk again.

"Yes," breathed Gama. He felt dizzy with the possibilities, the hope. "I have nothing left for me now. Maybe I can find my answer there. I will see if he lives, the man who started this all."

"Your answer?" The elf moved like water, a sinuous shadow lapping at the forest ground. "No, child, not there. Perhaps during the journey – but if you fail to find your answer on the way, your only answer at the end will be another bout of bloodshed. And you will come upon another dead end."

Gama stood alone, torn, as the elf disappeared into the morning mist.

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Red and gold leaves drizzled in a spectacular dance. Legolas paused to catch his breath. The pains at his chest were flaring more often now; the screams of the wind tore into his ears, and the endless stretches of grass seemed to taunt him, beckoning toward an unreachable paradise. He gritted his teeth.

After a few more steps, the pain flared again, sharp and sizzling against his heart. He collapsed onto his knees. The drizzle of leaves continued on, and slowly the screams faded away, blended into a gentle song. He heaved a weary breath, eyes unseeing, as a haunting melody neared, emitting a blinding white light. He raised a weary gaze.

The light stood before him, smiling with deep blue eyes. Cascades of golden hair fell onto the ground as she bent down, smiling, and held out her hand. Legolas smiled faintly.

With a determined heave, he reached out and rose to his feet. Then the light was gone, and he was once again standing alone in a field of tall grass and gray gales. But the pain in his chest was fainter, and gray winds whispered comfort into his ears, raining golden leaves his way. Legolas tightened his grip on his father's sword.

"I will not fade, Nana," he whispered, and resolutely trudged forward.

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Haldir's feet flew against the sea of wavering grass, breaking through the boundaries of Lothlorien. Dark clouds hovered over the plains.

_Much pain is coming. Many tears will be shed._

The Lady had looked at him with a sort of sorrow Haldir had not seen since her daughter had sailed. When she had foreseen grief that would take long to fade.

_In the golden woods of Lorien, a sun shall rise, and a moon shall set._

Keen eyes spotted a figure at last. Crouched in knee-high grass, barely visible among the swaying blades. He drew his sword. "Who goes there?" he shouted, increasing his pace. A head shot up, and Haldir recognized a human face. Blinking pale eyes in panic, the man scampered away.

Haldir gave no chase to the obviously half-blind man; he reached the place the man had been, and pushed the whipping blades of grass aside. He fell to his knees.

"Legolas." Shaking fingers pushed back wayward strands of hair, pulled ripped strands of the worn tunic together. An unfinished murder, Haldir thought icily, as fingers caressed reddened scratchmarks. The youth lay still, breathing shallowly, as he gazed unseeing toward the gray heavens. His hand clutched a ewer, and another hand lay sprawled on the grass, reaching toward a sword that lay not far away, emitting a gentle glow of protective rune. He was worn, torn, having crawled with the last of his strength toward the Golden Woods with a fading spirit.

Haldir bent down to gather the limp body into a deep embrace. "Wake up, little elf," he whispered. He rose to his feet, holding the youth in his arms. He buried his face in the folds of the young elf's tunic. "Wake up. You are late. I have to reprimand you."

He turned, and disappeared into the looming trees of the golden woods. And above the two battered children, the clouds were every gray, the winds furious in their howling, as the trees whispered their gentle welcome to Lothlorien, the golden sanctuary.

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_**The End **_

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**Author's Note**: Thank you for sharing this journey with me. The sequel will finally wrap up this dark little tale. Stay with me, and may the Valar be with you.


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